/,*.*- 


•  - ••' 


THE 


POEMS    OF    OSSIAN; 


TRANSLATED    BY 


JAMES  MACPHERSON,  ESQ. 


TO  WHICH  ARE  PREFIXED 


A  PRELIMINARY  DISCOURSE  AND   DISSERTATION 


.<ERA  AND   POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 


BOSTON: 

PHILLIPS,    SAMPSON    &    COMPANY, 

110  Washington  Street. 

1852. 


Stack 
Annex 

ft 


CONTENTS. 


A  Preliminary  Discourse 5 

Preface 38 

.4  Dissertation  concerning  the  ^Era  of  Ossian 44 

A  Dissertation  concerning  the  Poems  of  Ossian 57 

Dr.  Blair's  Critical  Dissertation  on  the  Poems  of  Ossian 88 

Cath-loda,  in  three  Duans 189 

Comala 203 

Carric-thura 209 

Carthon 22'J 

Oina-morul 235 

Colna-dona 239 

Oithona 243 

Croma 249 

Calthon  and  Colmal 254 

The  War  of  Caros 261 

Cathlin  of  Clutha 269 

Sul-malla  of  Lumon 275 

The  War  of  Inis-thona 280 

The  Songs  of  Selma 285 

Fingal,  in  six  Books 293 

Lathmon 358 

Dar.thula 369 

The  Death  of  Cuthullin 383 

The  Battle  of  Lora 391 

Temora,  in  eight  Books 399 

Conlath  and  Cuthona 479 

Berrathon..  ..     483 


PRELIMINARY  DISCOURSE. 


As  Swift  has,  with  some  reason,  affirmed  that  all 
sublunary  happiness  consists  in  being  well  deceived,  it 
may  possibly  be  the  creed  of  many,  that  it  had  been 
wise,  if  after  Dr.  Blair's  ingenious  and  elegant  disserta- 
tion on  "the  venerable  Ossian,"  all  doubts  respecting 
what  we  have  been  taught  to  call  his  works  had  for- 
ever ceased  :  since  there  appears  cause  to  believe,  that 
numbers  who  listened  with  delight  to  "  the  voice  of 
Cona/'  would  have  been  happy,  if,  seeing  their  own 
good,  they  had  been  content  with  these  poems  accom- 
panied by  Dr.  Blair's  judgment,  and  sought  to  know  no 
more.  There  are  men,  however,  whose  ardent  love 
of  truth  rises,  on  all  occasions,  paramount  to  every 
other  consideration  ;  and  though  the  first  step  in  search 
of  it  should  dissolve  the  charm,  and  turn  a  fruitful 
KJen  into  a  barren  wild,  they  would  pursue  it.  For 
these,  and  for  the  idly  curious  in  literary  problems, 
added  to  the  wish  of  making  this  new  edition  of  "  The 
Forms  of  Ossian"  as  well-informed  as  the  hour  would 
allow,  we  have  here  thought  it  proper  to  insert  some 
account  of  a  renewal  of  the  controversy  relating  to 
the  genuineness  of  this  rich  treasure  of  poetical  excel- 
lence. 

1* 


6  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

Nearly  half  a  century  has  elapsed  since  the  publica. 
tion  of  the  poems  ascribed  by  Mr.  Macpherson  to 
Ossian,  which  poems  he  then  professed  to  have  col- 
lected in  the  original  Gaelic,  during  a  tour  through  the 
Western  Highlands  and  tales ;  but  a  doubt  of  their 
authenticity  nevertheless  obtained,  and,  from  their  first 
appearance  to  this  day,  has  continued  in  va'rious  de- 
grees to  agitate  the  literary  world.  Jn  the  present 
year,  "  A  Report,"*  springing  from  an  inquiry  insti- 
tuted  for  the  purpose  of  leaving,  with  regard  to  this 
matter,  "  no  hinge  or  loop  to  hang  a  doubt  on,"  has 
been  laid  before  the  public.  As  the  committee,  in  this 
investigation,  followed,  in  a  great  measure,  that  line  of 
conduct  chalked  out  by  David  Hume  to  Dr.  Blair,  we 
shall,  previously  to  stating  their  precise  mode  of  pro- 
ceeding, make  several  large  and  interesting  extracts 
from  the  historian's  two  letters  on  this  subject. 

"  I  live  in  a  place,"  he  writes,  "  where  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  frequently  hearing  justice  done  to  your 
dissertation,  but  never  heard  it  mentioned  in  a  com- 
pany, where  some  one  person  or  other  did  not  express 
his  doubts  with  regard  to  the  authenticity  of  the  poems 
which  are  its  subject ;  and  I  often  hear  them  totally 
rejected  with  disdain  and  indignation,  as  a  palpable  and 
most  impudent  forgery.  This  opinion  has,  indeed, 
become  very  prevalent  among  the  men  of  letters  in 
London ;  and  I  can  foresee,  that  in  a  few  years,  the 
poems,  if  they  continue  to  stand  on  their  present  foot- 
ing,  will  be  thrown  aside,  and  will  fall  into  final  obliv- 
ion. 

*  "  A  Report  of  the  committee  of  the  Highland  Society  of  Scot- 
land, appointed  to  inquire  into  the  nature  and  authenticity  of  the 
Poems  of  Ossian.  Drawn  up,  according  to  the  directions  of  the 
committee,  by  Henry  Mackenzie,  Esq.,  its  convener,  or  chairman 
With  a  copious  appendix,  containing  some  of  the  principal  docu- 
ments on  which  the  report  is  founded.  Edinburgh,  1305."  8  ro 
pp  343.  fc 


A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  7 

"  The  absurd  pride  and  caprice  of  Macpherson  him- 
self,  who  scorns,  as  he  pretends,  to  satisfy  anybody 
that  doubts  his  veracity,  has  tended  much  to  confirm 
this  general  skepticism ;  and  I  must  own,  for  my  part, 
that  though  I  have  had  many  particular  reasons  to  be- 
lieve these  poems  genuine,  more  than  it  is  possible  for 
any  Englishman  of  letters  to  have,  yet  I  am  not  entirely 
without  my  scruples  on  that  head.  You  think,  that  the 
internal  proofs  in  favor  of  the  poems  are  very  convin- 
cing ;  so  they  are ;  but  there  are  also  internal  reasons 
against  them,  particularly  from  the  manners,  notwith- 
standing all  the  art  with  which  you  have  endeavored  to 
throw  a  vernish*  on  that  circumstance  ;  and  the  preser- 
vation of  such  long  and  such  connected  poems,  by  oral 
tradition  alone,  during  a  course  of  fourteen  centuries, 
is  so  much  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of  human  affairs, 
that  it  requires  the  strongest  reasons  to  make  us  be- 
lieve it.  My  present  purpose,  therefore,  is  to  apply  to 
you  in  the  name  of  all  the  men  of  letters  of  this,  and,  1 
may  say,  of  all  other  countries,  to  establish  this  capital 
point,  and  to  give  us  proofs  that  these  poems  are,  I  do 
not  say,  so  ancient  as  the  age  of  Severus;  but  that  they 
were  not  forged  within  these  five  years  by  James  Mac- 
pherson. These  proofs  must  not  be  arguments,  but 
testimonies ;  people's  ears  are  fortified  against  the 
former ;  the  latter  may  yet  find  their  way,  before  the 
poems  are  consigned  to  total  oblivion.  Now  the  testi- 
monies may,  in  my  opinion,  be  of  two  kinds.  Mac- 
pherson pretends  there  is  an  ancient  manuscript  of  p«.rt 
of  Fingal  in  the  family,  I  think,  of  Clanronald.  Get 
that  fact  ascertained  by  more  than  one  person  of  credit ; 
let  these  persons  be  acquainted  with  the  Gaelic;  ^et 
them  compare  the  original  and  the  translation  j  and  le* 
them  testify  the  fidelity  of  the  latter. 

*  So  in  MS. 


8  A   PRELIMINARY    IISCOURSE. 

"  But  the  chief  point  in  which  it  will  be  necessary 
for  you  to  exert  yourself,  will  be,  to  get  positive  tesu- 
mony  from  many  different  hands  that  such  poems  are 
vulgarly  recited  in  the  Highlands,  and  have  there  long 
been  the  entertainment  of  the  people.  This  testimony 
must  be  as  particular  as  it  is  positive.  It  will  not  be 
sufficient  that  a  Highland  gentleman  or  clergyman  say 
or  write  to  you  that  he  has  heard  such  poems ;  nobody 
questions  that  there  are  traditional  poems  of  that  part 
of  the  country,  where  the  names  of  Ossian  and  Fingal, 
and  Oscar  and  Gaul,  are  mentioned  in  every  stanza. 
The  only  doubt  is,  whether  these  poems  have  any  far- 
ther resemblance  to  the  poems  published  by  Macpher- 
son.  I  was  told  by  Bourke,*  a  very  ingenious  Irish 
gentleman,  the  author  of  a  tract  on  the  sublime  and 
ueautiful,  that  on  the  first  publication  of  Macpherson's 
book,  all  the  Irish  cried  out,  '  We  know  all  those 
poems.  We  have  always  heard  them  from  our  infancy.' 
JBut  when  he  asked  more  particular  questions,  he  could 
never  learn  that  any  one  ever  heard  or  could  repeat  the 
original  of  any  one  paragraph  of  the  pretended  transla- 
tion. This  generality,  then,  must  be  carefully  guarded 
against,  as  being  of  no  authority. 

"  Your  connections  among  your  brethren  of  the 
clergy  may  be  of  great  use  to  you.  You  may  easily 
learn  the  names  of  all  ministers  of  that  country  who 
understand  the  language  of  it.  You  may  write  to 
them,  expressing  the  doubts  that  have  arisen,  and  de- 
siring them  to  send  for  such  of  the  bards  as  remain, 
and  make  them  rehearse  their  ancient  poems.  Let 
the  clergymen  then  have  the  translation  in  their  hands, 
and  let  them  write  back  to  you,  and  inform  you,  that 
they  heard  such  a  one,  (naming  him,)  living  in  such  a 
place,  rehearse  the  original  of  such  a  passage,  from 

•SoinMS 


A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  9 

such  a  page  to  such  a  page  of  the  English  translation, 
which  appeared  exact  and  faithful.  If  you  give  to  the 
public  a  sufficient  number  of  such  testimonials,  you 
may  prevail.  But  I  venture  to  foretel  to  you,  that 
nothing  less  will  serve  the  purpose  ;  nothing  less  wil 
so  much  as  command  the  attention  of  the  public. 

"  Becket  tells  me,  that  he  is  to  give  us  a  new  editior 
of  your  dissertation,  accompanied  with  some  remarks 
on  Temora.  Here  is  a  favorable  opportunity  for  you 
to  execute  this  purpose.  You  have  a  just  and  laudable 
zeal  for  the  credit  of  these  poems.  They  are,  if  genu- 
ine, one  of  the  greatest  curiosities,  in  all  respects,  that 
ever  was  discovered  in  the  commonwealth  of  letters ; 
and  the  child  is,  in  a  manner,  become  yours  by  adop- 
tion, as  Macpherson  has  totally  abandoned  all  care  of 
it.  These  motives  call  upon  you  to  exert  yourself: 
and  I  think  it  were  suitable  to  your  candor,  and  most 
satisfactory  also  to  the  reader,  to  publish  all  the  an- 
swers to  all  the  letters  you  write,  even  though  some  of 
those  letters  should  make  somewhat  against  your  own 
opinion  in  this  affair.  We  shall  always  be  the  more 
assured,  that  no  arguments  are  strained  beyond  their 
proper  force,  and  no  contrary  arguments  suppressed, 
where  such  an  entire  communication  is  made  to  us. 
Becket  joins  me  heartily  in  that  application ;  and  he 
owns  to  me,  that  the  believers  in  the  authenticity  of  the 
poems  diminish  every  day  among  the  men  of  sense  and 
reflection.  Nothing  less  than  what  I  propose  can 
throw  the  balance  on  the  other  side." 

Lisle  street,  Leicester  .Fields, 
19th  Sept.,  1763. 

The  second  letter  contains  less  matter  of  impor- 
tance ;  but  what  there  is  that  is  relevant  deserves  not 
to  be  omitted. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  he  writes  on  the  6th  of  October, 


10  A    PRELIMINARY    DISCOURSE. 

1763,  "  you  have  undertaken  the  task  which  I  used  th« 
freedom  to  recommend  to  you.  Nothing  less  than 
what  you  propose  will  serve  the  purpose.  You  must 
expect  no  assistance  from  Macpherson,  who  flew  into 
a  passion  when  I  told  him  of  the  letter  I  had  wrote  to 
you.  But  you  must  not  mind  so  strange  and  hetero- 
clite  a  mortal,  than  whom  I  have  scarce  ever  known  a 
man  more  perverse  and  unamiable.  He  will  probably 
depart  for  Florida  with  Governor  Johnstone,  and  I 
would  advise  him  to  travel  among  the  Chickasaws  or 
Cherokees,  in  order  to  tame  and  civilize  him. 


"  Since  writing  the  above,  I  have  been  in  company 
with  Mrs.  Montague,  a  lady  of  great  distinction  in  this 
place,  and  a  zealous  partisan  of  Ossian.  I  told  her  of 
your  intention,  and  even  used  the  freedom  to  read  your 
letter  to  her.  She  was  extremely  pleased  with  your 
project ;  and  the  rather,  as  the  Due  de  Nivernois,  she 
said,  had  talked  to  her  much  on  that  subject  last  win- 
ter ;  and  desired,  if  possible,  to  get  collected  some 
proofs  of  the  authenticity  of  these  poems,  which  he 
proposed  to  lay  before  the  Academic  de  Belles  Lettres 
at  Paris.  You  see,  then,  that  you  are  upon  a  great 
stage  in  this  inquiry,  and  that  many  people  have  their 
eyes  upon  you.  This  is  a  new  motive  for  rendering 
your  proofs  as  complete  as  possible.  I  cannot  conceive 
any  objection  which  a  man,  even  of  the  gravest  char- 
acter, could  have  to  your  publication  of  his  letters, 
which  will  only  attest  a  plain  fact  known  to  him. 
Such  scruples,  if  they  occur,  you  must  endeavor  to  re- 
move,  for  on  this  trial  of  yours  will  the  judgment  of  the 
public  finally  depend." 

Without  being  acquainted  with  Hume's  advice  to 


A    PRELIMINARY    DISCOURSE.  11 

Dr.  Blair,  the  committee,  composed  of  chosen  persons, 
and  assisted  by  the  best  Celtic  scholars,  adopted,  as  it 
will  be  seen,  a  very  similar  manner  of  acting. 

It  conceived  the  purpose  of  its  nomination  to  be,  to 
employ  the  influence  of  the  society,  and  the  extensivt 
communication  which  it  possesses  with  every  part  of 
the  Highlands,  in  collecting  what  materials  or  informa- 
tion it  was  still  practicable  to  collect,  regarding  the 
authenticity  and  nature  of  the  poems  ascribed  to  Os- 
sian,  and  particularly  of  that  celebrated  collection  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  James  Macpherson. 

For  the  purpose  above  mentioned,  the  committee, 
soon  after  its  appointment,  circulated  the  following  set 
of  queries,  through  such  parts  of  the  Highlands  and 
Islands,  and  among  such  persons  resident  there,  as 
seemed  most  likely  to  afford  the  information  required. 

QUERIES. 

1.  Have  you  ever  heard  repeated,  or  sung,  any  of 
the  poems  ascribed  to  Ossian,  translated  and  published 
by  Mr.  Macpherson  ?     By  whom  have  you  heard  them 
so  repeated,  and  at  what  time  or  times  ?     Did  you 
ever  commit   any  of  them  to  writing  ?   or   can  you 
remember  them  so  well  as  now  to  set  them  down  ?     In 
either  of  these  cases,  be  so  good  to  send  the  Gaelic 
original",  to  the  committee. 

2.  The  same  answer  is  requested  concerning  any 
other  ancient  poems  of  the  same  kind,  and  relating  to 
the  same  traditionary  persons  or  stories  with  those  in 
Mr.  Macpherson's  collection. 

3.  Are  any  of  the  persons  from  whom  you  heard 
any  such  poems  now  alive  ?  or  are  there,  in  your  part 
of  the  country,  any  persons  who  remember  and  can 
repeat  or  recite  such  poems  ?     If  there  are,  be  so  good 
as  to  examine  them  as  to  the  manner  of  their  getting 


12  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

or  learning  such  compositions  ;  and  set  down,  as  accu 
rately  as  possible,  such  as  they  can  now  repeat  or  re- 
cite ;  and  transmit  such  their  account,  and  such  com- 
positions as  they  repeat,  to  the  committee. 

4.  If  there  are,  in  your  neighborhood,  any  persons 
from  whom  Mr.  Macpherson  received  any  poems,  in- 
quire  particularly  what  the  poems  were  which  he  so 

•received,  the  manner  in  which  he  received  them,  and 
how  he  wrote  them  down ;  show  those  persons,  if  you 
have  an  opportunity,  his  translation  of  such  poems,  and 
desire  them  to  say,  if  the  translation  is  exact  and 
literal ;  or,  if  it  differs,  in  what  it  differs  from  the 
poems,  as  they  repeated  them  to  Mr.  Macpherson,  and 
can  now  recollect  them. 

5.  Be  so  good  to  procure  every   information   you 
conveniently  can,  with  regard  to  the  traditionary  belief, 
in  the  country  in  which  you  live,  concerning  the  history 
of  Fingal  and  his  followers,  and  that  of  Ossian  and  his 
poems  ;  particularly  those  stories  and  poems  published 
by  Mr.    Mcicpherson,  and   the   heroes   mentioned   in 
them.     Transmit  any  such  account,  and  any  proverbial 
or  traditionary  expression  in  the  original  Gaelic,  rela- 
ting to  the  subject,  to  the  committee. 

6  In  all  the  above  inquiries,  or  any  that  may  occur 
to  in  elucidation  of  this  subject,  he  is  re- 

quested by  the  committee  to  make  the  inquiry,  and  to 
take  down  the  answers,  with  as  much  impartiality  and 
precision  as  possible,  in  the  same  manner  as  if  it  were 
a  legal  question,  and  the  proof  to  be  investigated  with 
a  legal  strictness. — See  the  "  Report." 

It  is  presumed  as  undisputed,  that  a  traditionary  his- 
lory  of  a  great  hero  or  chief,  called  Fion,  Fion  na 
Gael,  or,  as  it  is  modernized,  Fingal,  exists,  and  has 
immemorially  existed,  in  the  Highlands  and  Islands  of 
Scotland,  and  that  certain  poems  or  ballads  containing 


A  PRELIMINARY  DISCOURSE.  13 

the  exploits  of  him  and  his  associate  heroes,  were  Iho 
favorite  lore  of  the  natives  of  those  districts.  The 
general  belief  of  the  existence  of  such  heroic  person- 
ages, and  the  great  poet  Ossian,  the  son  of  Fingal,  by 
whom  their  exploits  were  sung,  is  as  universal  in  the 
Highlands,  as  the  belief  of  any  ancient  fact  whatsoever. 
It  is  recorded  in  proverbs,  which  pass  through  all  ranks 
and  conditions  of  men,  Ossian  dall,  blind  Ossian,*  is 
a  person  as  well  known  as  strong  Sampson,  or  wise 
Solomon.  The  very  boys  in  their  sports  cry  out  for 
fair  play,  Cothram  na  feine,  the  equal  combat  of  the 
Fingalians.  Ossian,  an  deigh  nam  jiann,  Ossian,  the 
last  of  his  race,  is  proverbial,  to  signify  a  man  who  has 
had  the  misfortune  to  survive  his  kindred  ;  and  servants 
returning  from  a  fair  or  wedding,  were  in  use  to  de- 
scribe the  beauty  of  young  women  they  had  seen  there, 
by  the  words,  Tha  i  cho  boidheach  reh  Agandecca, 
nigheanant  sneachda,  She  is  as  beautiful  as  Agandecca. 
the  daughter  of  the  Snow.f 

All  this  will  be  readily  conceded,  and  Mr.  Macpher- 
son's  being  at  one  period  an  "  indifferent  proficient  in 
the  Gaelic  language,"  may  seem  an  argument  of  some 
weight  against  his  having  himself  composed  these  Os- 
sianic  Poems.  Of  his  inaccuracy  in  the  Gaelic,  a  lu- 
dicrous instance  is  related  in  the  declaration  of  Mr. 
Evan  Macpherson,  at  Knock,  in  Sleat,  Sept.  11,  1800. 
He  declares  that  he,  "  Colonel  Macleod,  of  Talisker, 
and  the  late  Mr.  Maclean  of  Coll,  embarked  with  Mr. 
Macpherson  for  Uist  on  the  same  pursuit  :  that  they 
landed  at  Lochmaddy,  and  proceeded  across  the  Muir 
to  Benbecula,  the  seat  of  the  younger  Clanronald  : 
that  on  their  way  thither  they  fell  in  with  a  man  whom 
they  afterwards  ascertained  to  have  been  Mac  Codrum, 


j.  —  LascarU  Const. 
t  Report,  p.  15. 

2 


14  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

the  poet :  that  Mr.  Macpherson  asked  him  the  question^ 
A  bheil  dad  agad  air  an  Fheinn  ?  by  which  he  meant 
to  inquire,  whether  or  not  he  knew  any  of  the  poems 
of  Ussian  relative  to  the  Fingalians  :  but  that  the  term 
in  which  the  question  was  asked,  strictly  imported 
whether  or  not  the  Fingalians  owed  him  any  thing ; 
and  that  Mac  Codrum,  being  a  man  of  humor,  took 
advantage  of  the  incorrectness  or  inelegance  of  the 
Gaelic  in  which  the  question  was  put,  and  answered, 
that  really  if  they  had  owed  him  any  thing,  the  bonds 
and  obligations  were  lost,  and  he  believed  any  attempt 
to  recover  them  at  that  time  of  day  would  be  unavail- 
ing. Which  sally  of  Mac  Codrum's  wit  seemed  to 
have  hurt  Mr.  Macpherson,  who  cut  short  the  conver- 
sation, and  proceeded  on  towards  Benbecula.  And  the 
declarant  being  asked  whether  or  not  the  late  Mr. 
James  Macpherson  was  capable  of  composing  such 
poems  as  those  of  Ossian,  declares  most  explicitly  and 
positively  that  he  is  certain  Mr.  Macpherson  was  as 
unequal  to  such  compositions  as  the  declarant  himself, 
who  could  no  more  make  them  than  take  wings  and 
fly."  P.  96. 

We  would  here  observe,  that  the  sufficiency  of  a 
man's  knowledge  of  such  a  language  as  the  Gaelic,  for 
all  the  purposes  of  composition,  is  not  to  be  questioned, 
because  he  does  not  speak*  it  accurately  or  elegantly, 
much  l«ss  is  it  to  be  quibbled  into  suspicion  by  the 
pleasantly  of  a  double  entendre.  But  we  hold  it  pru- 
dent, and  it  shall  be  our  endeavor  in  this  place,  to  give 


*"We  doubt  not  that  Mr.  Professor  Person  cold,  if  he  pleased, 
forge  a  short  poem  in  Greek,  and  ascribing  it,  for  instance,  to 
Theocritus,  maintain  its  authenticity  with  considerable  force  and 
probability  ;  and  yet  were  it  possible  for  him  to  speak  to  the  sim- 
plest shepherd  of  ancient  Greece,  he  would  quickly  afford  as  good 
reason,  as  Mr.  Macpherson,  to  be  suspected  of  being  an  "  indiffer- 
ent proficient"  in  the  language 


A    PRELIMINARY    DISCOURSE.  15 

no  decided  opinion  on  the  main  subject  of  dispute. 
For  us  the  contention  shall  still  remain  subjudice. 

To  the  queries  circulated  through  such  parts  of  the 
Highlands  as  the  committee  imagined  most  likely  to 
afford  information  in  reply  to  them,  they  received  many 
answers,  most  of  which  were  conceived  in  nearly  simi- 
lar terms ;  that  the  persons  themselves  had  never 
doubted  of  the  existence  of  such  poems  as  Mr.  Mac- 
pherson  had  translated  ;  that  they  had  heard  many  of 
ihem  repeated  in  their  youth :  that  listening  to  them 
was  the  favorite  amusement  of  Highlanders,  in  the 
hours  of  leisure  and  idleness  ;  but  that  since  the  rebel- 
lion in  1745,  the  manners  of  the  people  had  undergone 
a  change  so  unfavorable  to  the  recitation  of  these 
poems,  that  it  was  now  an  amusement  scarcely  known, 
and  that  veiy  few  persons  remained  alive  who  were 
able  to  recite  them.  That  many  of  the  poems  which 
they  had  formerly  heard  were  similar  in  subject  and 
story,  as  well  as  in  the  names  of  the  heroes  mentioned 
in  them,  to  those  translated  by  Mr.  Macpherson :  that 
his  translation  seemed,  to  such  as  had  read  it,  a  very 
able  one  ;  but  that  it  did  not  by  any  means  come  up  to 
the  force  or  energy  of  the  original  to  such  as  had  read 
it ;  for  his  book  was  by  no  means  universally  possessed, 
or  read  among  the  Highlanders,  even  accustomed  to 
reading,  who  conceived  that  his  translation  could  add 
but  little  to  their  amusement,  and  not  at  all  to  their 
conviction,  in  a  matter  which  they  had  never  doubted. 
A  few  of  the  committee's  correspondents  sent  them 
such  ancient  poems  as  they  possessed  in  writing,  from 
having  formerly  taken  them  down  from  the  oral  reci- 
tation of  the  old  Highlanders  who  were  in  use  to  re. 
cite  them,  or  as  they  now  took  them  down  from  some 
person,  whom  a  very  advanced  period  of  life,  or  a  par- 
ticular connection  with  some  reciter  of  the  old  school, 


i 


16  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

enabled  still  to  retain  them  in  his  memory  ;*  but  those, 
the  committee's  correspondents  said,  were  generally  less 
perfect,  and  more  corrupted,  than  the  poems  which 
they  had  formerly  heard,  or  which  might  have  been 
obtained  at  an  earlier  period. f 

Several  collections  came  to  them  by  presents,  as 
well  as  by  purchase,  and  in  these  are  numerous  '•  shreds 
and  patches/'  that  bear  a  strong  resemblance,  to  the 
materials  of  which  "  Ossian's  Poems"  are  composed. 
These  are  of  various  degrees  of  consequence.  One 
of  them  we  are  the  more  tempted  to  give,  for  the  same 
reason  as  the  committee  was  the  more  solicitous  to 
procure  it,  because  it  was  one  which  some  of  the 
opposers  of  the  authenticity  of  Ossian  had  quoted  as 
evidently  spurious,  betraying  the  most  convincing  marks 
of  its  being  a  close  imitation  of  the  address  to  the  sun 
in  Milton. 

"I  got,"  says  Mr.  Mac  Diarmid,J  "the  copy  of 
these  poerns"  (Ossian's  address  to  the  sun  in  Carthon, 
and  a  similar  address  in  Carrickthura)  "  about  thirty 
years  ago,  from  an  old  man  in  Glenlyon.  I  took  it, 
and  several  other  fragments,  now,  I  fear,  irrecoverably 
lost,  from  the  man's  mouth.  He  had  learnt  them  in 
his  youth  from  people  in  the  same  glen,  which  must 
have  been  long  before  Macpherson  was  born." 


*  The  Rev.  Mr.  Smith,  who  has  published  translations  of  many 
Gaelic  poems,  accompanied  by  the  originals,  assures  us,  that 
"near  himself,  in  the  parish  of  Klimnver,  lived  a  person  named 
M'Pheal,  whom  he  has  neard,  for  weeks  together,  from  five  till  ten 
o'clock  at  night,  rehearse  ancient  poems,  and  many  of  them  Qs- 
eian's.  Two  others,  called  M'Dugal  and  M'Neil,  could  entertain 
their  hearers  in  the  same  manner  for  a  whole  winter  season.  It 
was  from  persons  of  this  description,  undoubtedly,  that  Macpherson 
recovered  a  great  part  of  the  works  of  Ossian.  A.  Macaonald'i 
Prelim.  Disc.  p.  76. 

•f  See  Report. 

j  Date,  April  9, 1801,  p.  71. 


A   PRELIMITAR1    DISCOURSE.  17 


LITERAL  TRANSLATION   OF    OSSUlNs    ADrRESS   TO    THB 
SUN   IN   CARTHON. 

"  O !  thou  who  travellest  above,  round  as  the  full-orbed 
Hard  shield  of  the  mighty !  whence  is  thy  brightness 
without  frown,  thy  light  that  is  lasting,  O  sun  1  Thou 
comest  forth  in  thy  powerful  beauty,  and  the  stars  hide 
their  course ;  the  moon,  without  strength,  goes  from 
the  sky,  hiding  herself  under  a  wave  in  the  west. 
Thou  art  in  thy  journey  alone ;  who  is  so  bold  as  to 
come  nigh  thee  ?  The  oak  falleth  from  the  high 
mountain ;  the  rock  and  the  precipice  fall  under  old 
age ;  the  ocean  ebbeth  and  floweth,  the  moon  is  lost 
above  in  the  sky ;  but  thou  alone  forever  in  victory, 
in  the  rejoicing  of  thy  own  light.  t  When  the  storn 
darkeneth  around  the  world,  with  fierce  thunder,  and 
piercing  lightnings,  thou  lookest  in  thy  beauty  from 
the  noiss,  smiling  in  the  troubled  sky !  To  me  is 
thy  light  in  vain,  as  I  can  never  see  thy  countenance  ; 
though  thy  yellow  golden  locks  are  spread  on  the 
face  of  the  clouds  in  the  east ;  or  when  thou  trem- 
blest  in  the  west,  at  thy  dusky  doors  in  the  ocean. 
Perhaps  thou  and  myself  are  at  one  time  mighty, 
at  another  feeble,  our  years  sliding  down  from 
the  skies,  quickly  travelling  together  to  their  end. 
Rejoice  then,  O  sun !  while  thou  art  strong,  O  king ! 
in  thy  youth.  Dark  and  unpleasant  is  old  age,  like 
the  vain  and  feeble  light  of  the  moon,  while  she  looks 
through  a  cloud  on  the  field,  and  her  gray  mist  on  the 
sides  of  the  rocks ;  a  blast  from  the  north  on  the 
plain,  a  traveller  in  distress,  and  he  slow." 

The  comparison  may  be  made,  by  turning  to  the 
end  of  Mr.  Macpherson's  version  of  "  Cartho7i,"  be- 
ginning  "  O  thou  that  rollest  above." 

But  it  must  not  be  concealed,  that  after  all  the  exer- 
2* 


18  A.     PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

tions  of  the  committee,  it  has  not  been  able  to  obtain 
any  one  poem,  the  same  in  title  and  tenor  with  the 
poems  published  by  him.  We  therefore  feel  that  the 
reader  of  "  Ossian's  Poems,"  until  grounds  more  rela- 
tive  be  produced,  will  often,  in  the  perusal  of  Mr.  Mac- 
phorson's  translations,  be  induced,  with  some  show  of 
justice,  to  exclaim  with  him,  when  he  looked  over  the 
manuscript  copies  found  in  Clanronald's  family,  "D — n 
the  scoundrel,  it  is  he  himself  that  now  speaks,  and 
not  Ossian  '"* 

To  this  sentiment  the  committee  has  the  candor  to 
incline,  us  it  will  appear  by  their  summing  up.  After 
producing  or  pointing  to  a  large  body  of  mixed  evi- 
dence, and  taking  for  granted  the  existence,  at  some 
period,  of  an  abundance  of  Ossianic  poetiy,  it  comes 
to  the  question,  "  How  far  that  collection  of  such 
poetry,  published  by  Mr.  James  Macpherson,  is  genu- 
ine ?"  To  answer  this  query  decisively,  is,  as  they 
confess,  difficult.  This,  however,  is  the  ingenious 
manner  in  which  they  treat  it. 

"  The  committee  is  possessed  of  no  documents,  to 
show  how  much  of  his  collection  Mr.  Macpherson 
obtained  in  the  form  in  which  he  has  given  it  to  the 
world.  The  poems  and  fragments  of  poems  which  the 
committee  has  been  able  to  procure,  contain,  as  will 
appear  from  the  article  in  the  Appendix  (No.  15) 
already  mentioned,  often  the  substance,  and  sometimes 
almost  the  literal  expression  (the  ipsissima  verba)  of 
passages  given  by  Mr.  Macpherson,  in  the  poems  of 
which  he  has  published  the  translations.  But  the  com- 
mittee has  not  been  able  to  obtain  any  one  poem  the 
same  in  title  or  tenor  with  the  poems  published  by  him. 
It  is  inclined  to  believe,  that  he  was  in  use  to  supply 
chasms,  and  to  give  connection,  by  inserting  passages 

*  Report,  p.  44. 


A  PRELIMINARY  DISCOURSE.  19 

which  he  did  not  find,  and  to  add  what  he  conceived 
to  be  dignity  and  delicacy  to  the  original  composition, 
by  striking  out  passages,  by  softening  incidents,  by  re- 
fining the  language — in  short,  by  changing  what  he 
considered  as  too  simple  or  too  rude  for  a  modern  ear, 
and  elevating  what,  in  his  opinion,  was  below  the 
standard  of  good  poetry.  To  what  degree,  however, 
he  exercised  these  liberties,  it  is  impossible  for  the 
committee  to  determine.  The  advantages  he  possess, 
ed,  which  the  committee  began  its  inquiries  too  late  to 
enjoy,  of  collecting  from  the  oral  recitation  of  a  num. 
ber  of  persons,  now  no  more,  a  very  great  number  of 
the  same  poems  on  the  same  subjects,  and  then  colla- 
ting thoss  different  copies,  or  editions,  if  they  may  be 
so  called,  rejecting  what  was  spurious  or  corrupted  in 
one  copy,  and  adopting  from  another,  something  more 
genuine  and  excellent  in  its  place,  afforded  him  an  op- 
portunity  of  putting  together  what  might  fairly  enough 
be  called  an  original  whole,  of  much  more  beauty,  and 
with  much  fewer  blemishes,  than  the  committee  believe 
it  now  possible  for  any  person,  or  combination  of  per- 
sons, to  obtain."  P.  152-3. 

Some  Scotch  critics,  who  should  not  be  ignorant  of 
the  strongholds  and  fastnesses  of  the  advocates  for 
the  authenticity  of  these  poems,  appear  so  convinced 
of  their  insufficiency,  that  they  pronounce  the  question 
put  to  rest  forever.  But  we  greatly  distrust  that  any 
literary  question,  possessing  a  single  inch  of  debateable 
ground  to  stand  upon,  will  be  suffered  to  enjoy  much 
rest  in  an  age  like  the  present.  There  are  as  many 
minds  as  men,  and  of  wranglers  there  is  no  end.  Be- 
hold another  and  "  another  yet,"  and  in  our  imagina- 
tion, he 

"  bears  a  glass, 
Which  shows  us  many  more." 

The  first  of  these  is  Mr.  Laing,  who  has  recently 


20  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

published  the  "  Poems  of  Ossian,  &c.,  containing  the 
Poetical  Works  of  James  Macpherson,  Esq.,  in  Prose 
and  Rhyme :  with  notes  and  illustrations.  In  2  vols. 
8  vo.  Edinburgh,  1805."  In  these  "  notes  and  illus- 
trations," we  foresee,  that  Ossian  is  likely  to  share  the 
fate  of  Shakspeare  :  that  is,  ultimately  to  be  loaded  and 
oppressed  by  heavy  commentators,  until  his  immorUl 
spirit  groan  beneath  vast  heaps  of  perishable  matter. 
The  object  of  Mr.  Laing's  commentary,  after  having 
elsewhere*  endeavored  to  show  that  the  poems  are 
spurious,  and  of  no  historical  authority,  "  is,"  says  he, 
"  not  merely  to  exhibit  parallel  passages,  much  less  in- 
stances of  a  fortuitous  resemblance  of  ideas,  but  to 
produce  the  precise  originals  from  which  the  similes 
and  images  are  indisputably  derived. "j"  And  these  he 
pretends  to  find  in  Holy  Writ,  and  in  the  classical 
piets,  both  of  ancient  and  modern  times.  Mr.  Laing, 
however,  is  one  of  those  detectors  of  plagiarisms,  and 
discoverers  of  coincidences,  whose  exquisite  penetar- 
fion  and  acuteness  can  find  any  thing  anywhere.  Dr. 
Johnson,  who  was  shut  against  conviction  with  respeu 
l.o  Ossian,  even  when  he  affected  to  seek  the  truth  in 
•the  heart  of  the  Hebrides,  may  yet  be  made  useful  to 
the  Ossianites  in  canvassing  the  merits  of  this  redoubted 
stickler  on  the  side  of  opposition.  "  Among  the  innu- 
merable practices,"  says  the  Rambler,:}:  "  by  which  in- 
terest or  envy  have  taught  those  who  live  upon  literary 
fame  to  disturb  each  other  at  their  airy  banquets,  one 
of  the  most  common  is  the  charge  of  plagiarism. 
When  the  excellence  of  a  new  composition  can  no 
longer  be  contested,  and  malice  is  compelled  to  give 


*  In  his  Critical  and  Historical  Dissertation  on  ths  Antiquity  of 
Ossian's  Poems, 
t  Preface,  p.  v 
t  No.  143. 


A  PRELIMINARY  DISCOURSE.  21 

way  to  the  unanimity  of  applause,  there  is  yet  this  one 
expedient  to  be  tried,  by  which  the  author  may  he  de- 
graded, though  his  work  be  reverenced ;  and  the  ex- 
cellence which  we  cannot  obscure,  may  be  set  at  such 
a  distance  as  not  to  overpower  our  fairrier  lustre. 
This  accusation  is  dangerous,  because,  even  when  it 
is  false,  it  may  be  sometimes  urged  with  probability." 

How  far  this  just  sentence  applies  to  Mr.  Laing,  it 
does  not  become  us,  nor  is  it  our  business,  now  to  de- 
clare :  but  we  must  say,  that  nothing  can  be  more  dis- 
ingenuous or  groundless  than  his  frequent  charges  of 
plagiarism  of  the  following  description ;  because,  in  the 
War  of  Caros,  we  meet  with  these  words,  "  It  is  like 
the  field,  when  darkness  covers  the  hills  around,  and 
the  shadow  grows  slowly  on  the  plain  of  the  sun,"  we 
are  to  believe,  according  to  Mr.  Laing,  that  the  idea 
was  stolen  from  Virgil's 

Majonsque  cadunt  altis  de  montibus  umbra. 

For  see,  yon  sunny  hills  the  shade  extend. — Dryden. 

As  well  might  we  credit  that  no  one  ever  beheld  a 
natural  phenomenon  except  the  Mantuan  bard.*  The 
book  of  nature  is  open  to  all,  and  in  her  pages  there 
are  no  new  readings.  "  Many  subjects,"  it  is  weli 
said  by  Johnson,  "  fall  under  the  consideration  of  an 
author,  which,  being  limited  by  nature,  can  admit  only 
of  slight  and  accidental  diversities.  A.11  definitions  of 
the  same  thing  must  be  nearly  the  same ;  and  descrip- 
tions, which  are  definitions  of  a  more  lax  and  fanciful 
kind,  must  always  have,  in  some  degree,  that  resem- 
blance to  each  other,  which  they  all  have  to  their  ob- 
ject." 

*  This  is  not  so  good,  because  not  so  amusing  in  its  absurdity,  aa 
an  attempt  formerly  made  to  prove  the  JEneid  Earse,  from  "  Arma 
Virumque  cano,"  and  "  Airm's  am  fear  canam,"  having  the  same 
meaning,  and  nearly  the  same  sound. 


22  A     PRELIMINARY    DISCOURSE. 

It  is  true,  however,  if  we  were  fully  able  to  admit 
that  Macpherson  could  not  have  obtained  these  ideas 
where  he  professes  to  have  found  them,  Mr.  Laing  has 
produced  many  instances  of  such  remarkable  coinci- 
dence  as  would  make  it  probable  that  Macpherson  fre- 
quently translates,  not  the  Gaelic,  but  the  poetical  lore 
of  antiquity.  Still  this  is  a  battery  that  can  only  bo 
brought  to  play  on  particular  points ;  and  then  with  great 
uncertainty.  The  mode  of  attack  used  by  Mr.  Knight, 
could  it  have  been  carried  on  to  any  extent,  would 
have  proved  much  more  effectual.  We  shall  give  the 
instance  alluded  to.  In  his  "  Analytical  Enquiry  into 
the  Principles  of  Taste,  1805,"  he  makes  these  re- 
marks : 

"  The  untutored,  but  uncorrupted  feelings  of  all  un- 
polished nations,  have  regulated  their  fictions  upon  the 
same  principles,  even  when  most  rudely  exhibited.  In 
relating  the  actions  of  their  gods  and  deceased  heroes, 
they  are  licentiously  extravagant :  for  their  falsehood 
could  amuse,  because  it  could  not  be  detected ;  but  in 
describing  the  common  appearances  of  nature,  and  all 
those  objects  and  effects  which  are  exposed  to  habitual 
observation,  their  bards  are  scrupulously  exact ;  so  - 
that  an  extravagant  hyperbole,  in  a  matter  of  this  kind, 
is  sufficient  to  mark  as  counterfeit  any  composition 
attributed  to  them.  In  the  early  stages  of  society,  men 
are  as  acute  and  accurate  in  practical  observation  as 
they  are  limited  and  deficient  in  speculative  science ; 
and  in  proportion  as  they  are  ready  to  give  up  their 
imaginations  to  delusion,  they  are  jealously  tenacious 
of  the  evidence  of  their  senses.  James  Macpherson, 
in  the  person  of  his  blind  bard,  could  say,  with  applause 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  '  Thus  have  I  seen  in  Cona ; 
but  Cona  I  behold  no  more :  thus  have  I  seen  two  dark 
hills  removed  from  their  place  by  the  strength  of  the 
mountain  stream.  They  turn  from  side  to  side,  and 


A  PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  23 

their  tall  oaks  meet  one  another  on  high.     Then  they 
fall  together  with  all  their  rocks  and  trees.' 

"  But  had  a  blind  bard,  or  any  other  bard,  presumed 
to  utter  such  a  rhapsody  of  bombast  in  the  hall  of 
shells,  amid  the  savage  warriors  to  whom  Ossian  is 
supposed  to  have  sung,  he  would  have  needed  all  the 
influence  of  royal  birth,  attributed  to  that  fabulous  per 
sonage,  to  restrain  the  audience  from  throwing  their 
shells  at  his  head,  and  hooting  him  out  of  their  com- 
pany  as  an  impudent  liar.  They  must  have  been  suf- 
ficiently acquainted  with  the  rivulets  of  Cona  or  Glen- 
Coe  to  know  that  he  had  seen  nothing  of  the  kind  ;  and 
have  known  enough  of  mountain  torrents  in  general  to 
know  that  no  such  effects  are  ever  produced  by  them, 
and  would,  therefore,  have  indignantly  rejected  such  a 
barefaced  attempt  to  impose  on  their  credulity." 

The  best  defence  that  can  be  set  up  in  this  case  will, 
perhaps,  be  to  repeat,  "It  is  he  himself  that  now 
speaks,  and  not  Ossian." 

Mr.  Laing  had  scarcely  thrown  down  the  gauntlet, 
when  Mr.  Archibald  M'Donald*  appeared 

"  Ready,  aye,  readyj  for  the  field. 

The  opinion  of  the  color  of  his  opposition,  whether 
it  be  that  of  truth  or  error,  will  depend  on  the  eye  that 
contemplates  it.  Those  who  delight  to  feast  with  Mr. 
Laing  cm  the  limbs  of  a  mangled  poet,  will  think  the 
latter  unanswered ;  while  thoseif:  who  continue  to  in- 


*  "  Some  of  Ossian's  lesser  Poems,  rendered  into  verse,  with  a 
Preliminary  Discourse,  in  answer  to  Mr.  Laing's  Critical  and  His- 
torical Dissertation  on  the  Antiquity  of  Ossian's  Poems,  8  vo.  p 
2&i.  Liverpool,  1805." 

f  Thirlestane's  motto.    See  Scott's  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel.     . 

JA  professor  in  the  university  of  Edinburgh,  the  amiable  and 
learned  Dr.  Gregory,  is  on  the  side  of  the  believers  in  Ossian.  Hia 
judgment  is  a  tower  of  strength.  See  the  preface,  p.  vi.  to  xii.  and 


24  A  PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

dulge  the  animating  thought,  "  that  Fingal  lived,  and 
that  Ossian  sung,"  will  entertain  a  different  sentiment. 
After  successfully  combating  several  old  positions,* 
Mr.  M'Donald  terminates  his  discussion  of  the  point  at 
issue  with  these  words : 

"  He  (Mr.  Laing)  declares,  'if  a  single  poem  of  Os- 
sian in  MS.  of  an  older  date  than  the  present  century 
(1700,)  be  procured  and  lodged  in  a  public  library,  I 
(Laing)  shall  return  among  the  first  to  our  national 
cieed.' 

"  This  is  reducing  the  point  at  issue  to  a  narrow 
compass.  Had  the  proposal  been  made  at  the  outset, 
it  would  have  saved  both  him  and  me  a  good  deal  of 
trouble :  not  that  in  regard  to  ancient  Gaelic  manu- 
scripts I  could  give  any  more  satisfactory  account  than 
has  been  done  in  the  course  of  this  discourse.  There 
the  reader  will  see,  that  though  some  of  the  poems  are 
confessedly  procured  from  oral  tradition,  yet  several 
gentlemen  of  veracity  attest  to  have  seen,  among 
Macpherson's  papers,  several  MSS.  of  a  much  older 
date  than  Mr.  Laing  requires  to  be  convinced.  Though 
not  more  credulous  than  my  neighbors,  I  cannot  resist 
facts  so  well  attested ;  there  are  no  stronger  for  be- 
lieving the  best-established  human  transactions. 

"  I  understand  the  originals  are  in  the  press,  and  ex- 
pected daily  to  make  their  appearance.  When  they 
do,  the  public  will  not  be  carried  away  by  conjectures, 
but  be  able  to  judge  on  solid  grounds.  Till  then,  let 
the  discussion  be  at  rest."  P.  193-4. 

p.  146,  of  his  Comparative  View  of  the  State  and  Faculties  of  Man 
with  those  of  the  Animal  World. 

*  Such  as  the  silence  of  Ossian  in  respect  to  religion ;  his  omis- 
sion of  wolves  and  bears,  &c.  See  also  in  the  Literary  Journal, 
August,  1804,  a  powerful  encounter  of  many  of  Mr.  Laing's  other 
arguments  in  his  Dissertation  against  the  authenticity  of  these  po- 
ems. His  ignorance  of  the  Gaelic,  and  the  consequent  futility  of 
bis  etymological  remarks,  are  there  ably  exposed.  * 


A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  25 

It  is  curious  to  remark,  and,  in  this  place,  not  un. 
worthy  of  our  notice,  that  whilst  the  controversy  is 
imminent  in  the  decision,  whether  these  poems  are  to 
be  ascribed  to  a  Highland  bard  long  since  gone  "  to 
the  halls  of  his  fathers,"  or  to  a  Lowland  muse  of  the 
last  century,  it  is  in  the  serious  meditation  of  some 
controversialist  to  step  in  and  place  the  disputed  wreath 
on  the  brows  of  Hibernia.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
Ireland  was,  in  ancient  times,  so  much  connected  with 
the  adjacent  coast  of  Scotland,  that  they  might  almost 
be  considered  as  one  country,  having  a  community  of 
manners  and  of  language,  as  well  as  the  closest  politi- 
cal connection.  Their  poetical  language  is  nearly,  or 
rather  altogether  the  same.  These  coinciding  circum- 
stances, therefore,  independent  of  all  other  ground, 
afford  to  ingenuity,  in  the  present  state  of  the  question, 
a  sufficient  basis  for  the  erection  of  an  hypothetical  su- 
perstructure of  a  very  imposing  nature. 

In  a  small  volume  published  at  Dusseldorf  in  1787, 
by  Edmond,  Baron  de  Harold,  an  Irishman,  of  endless 
titles,*  we  are  presented  with  what  are  called,  "  Poems 
of  Ossian  lately  discovered. "f 

"  I  am  interested,"  says  the  baron  in  his  preface, 
"in  no  polemical  dispute  or  party,  and  give  these 
poems  such  as  they  are  found  in  the  mouths  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  and  do  not  pretend  to  ascertain  what  was  the  na- 
tive country  of  Ossian.  I  honor  and  revere  equally  a 


*  "  Colonel-commander  of  the  regiment  of  Konigsfield,  gentle- 
man of  the  bedchamber  of  his  most  serene  highness  the  Elector 
Palatine,  member  of  the  German  Society  ot  Manheim,  of  the 
.Royal  Antiquarian  Society  of  London,  and  of  the  Academy  of 
Dusseldon'." 

f  In  some  lines  in  these  poems  we  find  the  lyre  of  Ossiart  called 
"  the  old  Hibernian  lyre."  The  idea  is  not  new.  See  Burke's 
Observation  in  Hume's  first  Letter  to  Dr.  Blair.  Also,  the  coller- 
lions  by  Miss  Brooke  and  Mr.  Kennedy.  Compare  the  story  of 
Conloch  with  that  of  Carthon  in  Macphersca. 
3 


26  A  PRELIMINARY   DISCOTJKSE. 

bard  of  his  exalted  talents,  were  he  born  in  Ireland  or 
in  Scotland.  It  is  certain  that  the  Scotch  and  Irish 
were  united  at  some  early  period.  That  they  proceed 
from  the  same  origin  is  indisputable ;  nay,  I  believe 
that  it  is  proved  beyond  any  possibility  of  negating  it, 
that  the  Scotch  derive  their  origin  from  the  Irish. 
This  truth  has  been  brought  in  question  but  of  late 
days ;  and  all  ancient  tradition,  and  the  general  con- 
sent of  the  Scotch  nation,  and  of  their  oldest  historians, 
agree  to  confirm  the  certitude  of  this  assertion.  If 
any  man  still  doubts  of  it,  he  will  find,  in  Macgeoge- 
han's  History  of  Ireland,  an  entire  conviction,  estab- 
lished by  elaborate  discussion,  and  most  incontroverti- 
ble proofs  :"  pp.  v.  vi. 

We  shall  not  stay  to  quarrel  about  "  Sir  Archy's 
great  grandmother,"*  or  to  contend  that  Fingal,  the 
Irish  giant,"}"  did  not  one  day  go  "  over  from  Carrick- 

*  See  Macklin's  Love  A-la-mode. 

t "  Selma  is  not  at  all  known  in  Scotland.  "When  I  asked,  and 
particularly  those  who  were  possessed  of  any  poetry,  songs,  or 
tales,  who  Fion  was  1  (for  he  is  not  known  by  the  name  of  Fingal 
by  any  ;)  I  was  answered,  that  he  was  an  Irishman,  if  a  man ;  for 
they  sometimes  thought  him  a  giant,  and  that  he  lived  in  Ireland, 
and  sometimes  came  over  to  hunt  in  the  Highlands. 

"  Like  a  true  Scotchman,  in  order  to  make  his  composition  more 
acceptable  to  his  countrymenj  Mr.  Macpherson  changes  the  name 
of  Fion  Mac  Cumhal,  the  Irishman,  into  Fingaj ;  which,  indeed. 
Bounds  much  better,  and  sets  him  up  a  Scotch  king  over  the  ideal 
kingdom  of  Morven  in  the  west  of  Scotland.  It  had  been  a  better 
argument  for  the  authenticity,  if  he  had  allowed  him  to  be  an 
Irishman,  and  made  Morven  an  Irish  kingdom,  as  well  as  Ireland 
the  scene  of  his  battles,  but  as  he  must  need  make  the  hero  of  an 
epic  poem  a  great  character,  it  was  too  great  honor  for  any  other 
countiy  but  Scotland  to  have  given  birth  to  so  considerable  a  per- 
sonage. All  the  authentic  histories  of  Ireland  give  a  full  account 
of  Fingal  or  Fion  Mac  Cumhal's  actions,  and  any  one  who  will 
take  the  trouble  to  look  at  Dr.  Keating's,  or  any  other  history  of 
that  country,  will  find  the  matter  related  as  above,  whereas,  _in  the 
Chronicon  Scotorum,  from  which  the  list  of  the  Scotch  kings  is 
taken,  and  the  pretended  MSS.  they  so  much  boast  of  to  be  seen 
in  the  Hebrides,  there  is  not  one  syllable  said  of  such  a  name  as 
Fingal."— An  Enquiry  into  the  Authenticity  of  the  Poems  of  Os- 


A   PRELIMINARY  DISCOURSE.  27 

fergus,  and  people  all  Scotland  with  his  own  hands," 
and  make  these  sons  of  the  north  "  illegitimate  ;"  but 
we  may  observe,  that  from  the  inclination  of  the 
baron's  opinion,  added  to  the  internal  evidence  of  his 
poems,  there  appears  at  least  as  much  reason  to  believe 
their  author  to  have  been  a  native  of  Ireland  as  of 
Scotland.  The  success  with  which  Macpherson's  en- 
deavors  had  been  rewarded,  induced  the  baron  to  in- 
quire  whether  any  more  of  this  kind  of  poetry  could  be 
obtained.  His  search,  he  confesses,  would  have  proved 
fruitless,  had  he  expected  to  find  complete  pieces ; 
"  for,  certainly,"  says  he,  "  none  such  exist.  But,"  he 
adds,  "  in  seeking  with  assiduity  and  care,  I  found, 
by  the  help  of  my  friends,  several  fragments  of  old 
traditionary  songs,  which  were  very  sublime,  and  par- 
ticularly  remarkable  for  their  simplicity  and  elegance." 
P.  iv. 

"  From  these  fragments,"  continues  Baron  de  Har- 
old, "I  have  composed  the  following  poems.  They 
are  all  founded  on  tradition ;  but  the  dress  they  now 
appear  in  is  mine.  It  will  appear  singular  to  some, 
that  Ossian,  at  times,  especially  in  the  songs  of  Com- 
fort,  seems  rather  to  be  an  Hibernian  than  a  Scotchman, 
and  that  some  of  these  poems  formally  contradict  pas- 
sages  of  great  importance  in  those  handed  to  the  pub- 
lie  by  Mr.  Macpherson,  especially  that  very  remarka- 
ble one  of  Evir-allen,  where  the  description  of  her 
marriage  with  Ossian  is  essentially  different  in  all  its 
parts  from  that  given  in  former  poems."  P.  v. 


man,  by  W.  Shaw,  A.  M.,  F.  S.  A.,  author  of  the  Gaelic  Dictionary 
and  Grammar.    London,  1781. 

Mr.  Shaw  crowns  his  want  of  faith  in  Macpherson's  Ossian  witn 
this  piece  of  information.  "  A  gentleman  promised  to  ornament 
a  scalloped  shell  with  silver,  if  I  should  bring  him  one  from  the 
Highlands,  and  to  swear  that  it  was  the  identical  shell  out  of  which 
Fingnl  used  to  drink." — A  gentleman ! 


88  A   PRELlMllfAR      DISCOURSE. 

We  refer  the  reader  to  the  opening  of  the  fourth 
book  of  Fingal,  which  treats  of  Ossian's  courtship  of 
Evir-allen.  The  Evir-aUen  of  Baron  de  Harold  is  iu 
these  words : 


EVIR-ALLEN: 

A  POEM.  I 

THOTJ  fairest  of  the  maids  of  Morven,  young  beam 
of  streamy  Lutha,  come  to  the  help  of  the  aged,  come 
to  the  help  of  the  distressed.  Thy  soul  is  open  to  pity. 
Friendship  glows  in  thy  tender  breast.  Ah  come  and 
sooth  away  my  wo.  Thy  words  are  music  to  my 
soul. 

Bring  me  my  once-loved  harp.  It  hangs  long  neg- 
lected in  my  hall.  The  stream  of  years  has  borne  me 
away  in  its  course,  and  rolled  away  all  my  bliss.  Dim 
and  faded  are  my  eyes  ;  thin-strewed  with  hairs  my 
head.  Weak  is  that  nervous  arm,  once  the  terror  of 
foes.  Scarce  can  I  grasp  my  staff,  the  prop  of  my 
trembling  limbs. 

Lead  me  to  yonder  craggy  steep.  The  murmur  of 
the  falling  streams  ;  the  whistling  winds  rushing  through 
the  woods  of  my  hills  ;  the  welcome  rays  of  the  boun- 
teous sun,  will  soon  awake  the  voice  of  song  in  my 
breast.  The  thoughts  of  former  years  glide  over  my 
soul  like  swift-shooting  meteors  o'er  Ardven's  gloomy 
vales. 

Come,  ye  friends  of  my  youth,  ye  soft-sounding 
voices  of  Cona,  bend  from  your  gold-tinged  clouds, 
and  join  me  in  my  song.  A  mighty  blaze  is  kindled 
in  my  soul.  I  hear  a  powerful  voice.  It  says,  "  Seize 
thy  beam  of  glory,  O  bard !  for  thou  shalt  soon  depart. 
Soon  shall  the  light  of  song  be  faded.  Soon  thy  tuneful 


A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  29 

voice  forgotten." — "  Yes,  I  obey,  O  powerful  voice, 
for  thou  art  pleasing  to  mine  ear." 

O  Evir-allen !  thou  boast  of  Erin's  maids,  thy  thoughts 
come  streaming  on  my  soul.  Hear,  O  Malvina  !  a  tale 
of  my  youth,  the  actions  of  my  former  days. 

Peace  reigned  over  Morven's  hills.  The  shell  of 
jcy  resounded  in  our  halls.  Round  the  blaze  of  the 
oak  sported  in  festive  dance  the  maids  of  Morven. 
They  shone  like  the  radiant  bow  of  heaven,  when  the 
fiery  rays  of  the  setting  sun  brightens  its  varied  sides. 
They  wooed  me  to  their  love,  but  my  heart  was  silent, 
cold.  Indifference,  like  a  brazen  shield,  covered  my 
frozen  heart. 

Fingal  saw,  he  smiled,  and  mildly  spoke :  My  son, 
the  down  of  youth  grows  on  thy  cheek.  Thy  arm  has 
wielded  the  spear  of  war.  Foes  have  felt  thy  force. 
Morven's  maids  are  fair,  but  fairer  are  the  daughters 
of  Erin.  Go  to  that  happy  isle  ;  to  Branno's  grass- 
covered  fields.  The  daughter  of  my  friend  deserves 
thy  love.  Majestic  beauty  flows  around  her  as  a  robe, 
and  innocence,  as  a  precious  veil,  heightens  her  youth- 
ful  charms.  Go,  take  thy  arms,  and  win  the  lovely 
fair. 

Straight  I  obeyed.  A  chosen  band  followed  my 
steps.  We  mounted  the  dark-bosomed  ship  of  the 
king,  spread  its  white  sails  to  the  winds,  and  ploughed 
through  the  foam  of  ocean.  Pleasant  shone  the  fine- 
eyed  Ull-Erin.*  With  joyal  songs  we  cut  the  liquid 
way.  The  moon,  regent  of  the  silent  night,  gleamed 
majestic  in  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  and  seemed 
pleased  to  bathe  her  side  in  the  trembling  wave.  My 
soul  was  full  of  my  father's  words.  A  thousand 
thoughts  divided  my  wavering  mind. 

Soon  as  the  early  beam  of  morn  appeared,  we  saw 

*  The  guiding  star  to  Ireland. 
3* 


30  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

the  green-skirted  sides  of  Erin  advancing  in  the  bosom 
of  the  sea.  White  broke  the  tumbling  surges  on  the 
coast. 

Deep  in  Larmor's  woody  bay  we  drove  our  keel  to 
the  shore,  and  gained  the  lofty  beach.  I  inquired  after 
the  generous  Branno.  A  son  of  Erin  led  us  to  his 
halls,  to  the  banks  of  the  sounding  Lego.  He  said, 
"Many  warlike  youths  are  assembled  to  gain  the  dark- 
haired  maid,  the  beauteous  Evir-allen.  Branno  will 
give  her  to  the  brave.  The  conqueror  shall  bear  away 
the  fair.  Erin's  chiefs  dispute  the  maid,  for  she  is 
destined  for  the  strong  in  arms." 

These  words  inflamed  my  breast,  and  roused  courage 
in  my  heart.  I  clad  my  limbs  in  steel.  I  grasped  a 
shining  spear  in  my  hand.  Branno  saw  our  approach. 
He  sent  the  gray-haired  Snivan  to  invite  us  to  his  feast, 
and  know  the  intent  of  our  course.  He  came  with  the 
solemn  steps  of  age,  and  gravely  spoke  the  words  of 
the  chief. 

"  Whence  are  these  arms  of  steel  ?  If  friends  ye 
come,  Branno  invites  you  to  his  halls ;  for  this  day 
the  lovely  Evir-allen  shall  bless  the  warrior's  arms 
whose  lance  shall  shine  victorious  in  the  combat  of 
valor." 

"  O  venerable  bard  !"  I  said,  "  peace  guides  my  steps 
to  Branno.  My  arm  is  young,  and  few  are  my  deeds 
in  war,  but  valor  inflames  my  soul ;  I  am  of  the  race 
of  the  brave." 

The  bard  departed.  We  followed  the  steps  of  age, 
and  soon  arrived  to  Branno's  halls. 

The  hero  came  to  meet  us.  Manly  serenity  adorn- 
ed his  brow.  His  open  front  showed  the  kindness  of 
his  heart.  "  Welcome,"  he  said,  "  ye  sons  of  stran. 
gers  ;  welcome  to  Branno's  friendly  halls  ;  partake  his 
shell  of  joy.  Share  in  the  combat  of  spears.  Not 
unworthy  is  the  prize  of  v»'or  the  lovely  dark-haired 


A  PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  31 

maid  of  Erin  ;  but  strong  must  be  that  warrior's  hand 
that  conquers  Erin's  chiefs  ;  matchless  his  strength  in 
fight." 

"  Chief,"  I  replied,  "  the  light  of  my  father's  deeds 
blazes  in  my  soul.  Though  young,  I  seek  my  beam 
of  glory  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  foes.  Warrior,  I  can 
fall,  but  I  shall  fall  with  renown." 

"  Happy  is  thy  father,  O  generous  youth !  more 
happy  the  maid  of  thy  love.  Thy  glory  shall  surround 
her  with  praise  ;  thy  valor  raise  her  charms.  O  were 
my  Evir-allen  thy  spouse,  my  years  would  pass  away 
in  joy.  Pleased  I  would  descend  into  the  grave  :  con- 
tented see  the  end  of  my  days." 

The  feast  was  spread :  stately  and  slow  came  Evir- 
allen.  A  snow-white  veil  covered  her  blushing  face. 
Her  large  blue  eyes  were  bent  on  earth.  Dignity 
flowed  round  her  graceful  steps.  A  shining  tear  fell 
glittering  on  her  cheek.  She  appeared  lovely  as  the 
mountain  flower  when  the  ruddy  beams  of  the  rising 
sun  gleam  on  its  dew-covered  sides.  Decent  she  sate. 
High  beat  my  fluttering  heart.  Swift  through  my 
veins  flew  my  thrilling  blood.  An  unusual  weight  op- 
pressed my  breast.  I  stood,  darkened  in  my  place. 
The  image  of  the  maid  wandered  over  my  troubled 
soul. 

The  sprightly  harp's  melodious  voice  arose  from  the 
string  of  the  bards.  My  soul  melted  away  in  the 
sounds,  for  my  heart,  like  a  stream,  flowed  gently 
away  in  song.  Murmurs  soon  broke  upon  our  joy. 
Half-unsheathed  daggers  gleamed.  Many  a  voice  was 
heard  abrupt.  "  Shall  the  son  of  the  strangers  be  pre- 
ferred ?  Soon  shall  he  be  rolled  away,  like  mist  by 
the  rushing  breath  of  the  tempest."  Sedate  I  rose,  for 
I  despised  the  boaste/'s  threats.  The  fair  one's  eye 
followed  my  departure.  I  heard  a  smothered,  sigh 
burst  from  her  breast. 


32  A    PRELIMINARY    DISCOURSE. 

The  horn's  harsh  sound  summoned  us  to  the  doubt- 
ful strife  of  spears.  Lothmar,  fierce  hunter  of  the 
woody  Galmal,  first  opposed  his  might.  He  vainly 
insulted  my  youth,  but  my  sword  cleft  his  brazen  shield, 
and  cut  his  ashen  lance  in  twain.  Straight  1  with 
held  my  descending  blade.  Lothmar  retired  confused 

Then  rose  the  red-haired  strength  of  Sulin.  Fierc* 
rolled  his  deep-sunk  eye.  His  shaggy  brows  stood 
erect.  His  face  was  contracted  with  scorn.  Thrice 
his  spear  pierced  my  buckler.  Thrice  his  sword  struct 
on  my  helm.  Swift  flashes  gleamed  from  our  circling 
blades.  The  pride  of  my  rage  arose.  Furious  I  rushed 
on  the  chief,  and  stretched  his  bulk  on  the  plain. 
Groaning  he  fell  to  earth.  Lego's  shores  re-echoed 
from  his  fall. 

Then  advanced  Cormac,  graceful  in  glittering  arms. 
No  fairer  youth  was  seen  on  Erin's  grassy  hills.  His 
age  was  equal  to  mine ;  his  port  majestic ;  his  stature 
tall  and  slender,  like  the  young  shooting  poplar  in  Lu- 
tha's  streamy  vales ;  but  sorrow  sate  upon  his  brow  ; 
languor  reigned  on  his  cheek.  My  heart  inclined  to 
the  youth.  My  sword  oft  avoided  to  wound ;  often 
sought  to  save  his  days  :  but  he  rushed  eager  on  death. 
He  fell.  Blood  gushed  from  his  panting  breast.  Tears 
flowed  streaming  from  mine  eyes.  I  stretched  forth 
my  hand  to  the  chief.  I  proffered  gentle  words  of 
peace.  Faintly  he  seized  my  hand.  "  Stranger,"  he 
said,  "I  willingly  die,  for  my  days  were  oppressed  with 
wo.  Evir-allen  rejected  my  love.  She  slighted  my 
tender  suit.  Thou  alone  deservest  the  maid,  for  pitj 
reigns  in  thy  soul,  and  thou  art  generous  and  brave. 
Tell  her,  I  forgive  her  scorn.  Tell  her,  I  descend 
with  joy  into  the  grave ;  but  raise  the  stone  of  my 
praise.  Let  the  maid  throw  a  flower  on  my  tomb, 
and  mingle  one  tear  with  my  dust ;  this  is  my  sole  re- 
quest. This  she  can  grant  to  mv  shade." 


A    PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  33 

I  would  have  spoken,  but  broken  sighs  issuing  from 
my  breast,  interrupted  my  faltering  words.  I  threw 
my  spear  aside.  1  clasped  the  youth  in  my  arms :  but, 
alas  !  his  soul  was  already  departed  to  the  cloudy  man* 
sions  of  his  fathers. 

Then  thrice  I  raised  my  voice,  and  called  the  chiefs 
to  combat.  Thrice  I  brandished  my  spear,  and  wield- 
ed my  glittering  sword.  No  warrior  appeared.  They 
dreaded  the  force  of  my  arm,  and  yielded  the  blue- 
eyed  maid. 

Three  days  I  remained  in  Branno's  halls.  On  the 
fourth  he  led  me  to  the  chambers  of  the  fair.  She 
came  forth  attended  by  her  maids,  graceful  in  lovely 
majesty,  like  the  moon,  when  all  the  stars  confess  her 
sway,  and  retire  respectful  and  abashed.  I  laid  my 
sword  at  her  feet.  Words  of  love  flowed  faltering 
from  my  tongue.  Gently  she  gave  her  hand.  Joy 
seized  my  enraptured  soul.  Branno  was  touched  at 
the  sight.  He  closed  me  in  his  aged  arms. 

"  O  wert  thou,"  said  he,  "  the  son  of  my  friend,  the 
son  of  the  mighty  Fingal,  then  were  my  happiness 
complete !" 

"  I  am,  I  am  the  son  of  thy  friend,"  I  replied,  "  Os- 
sian,  the  son  of  Fingal ;"  then  sunk  upon  his  aged 
breast.  Our  flowing  tears  mingled  together.  We  re- 
mained long  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 

Such  was  my  youth,  O  Malvina !  but  alas  !  I  am  now 
forlorn.  Darkness  covers  my  soul.  Yet  the  light  of 
song  beams  at  times  on  my  mind.  It  solaces  awhile 
my  wo.  Bards,  prepare  my  tomb.  Lay  me  by  the 
fair  Evir-allen.  When  the  revolving  years  bring  back 
the  mild  season  of  spring  to  our  hills,  sing  the  praise 
of  Cona's  bard,  of  Ossian,  the  friend  of  the  distressed. 

The  difference,  in  many  material  circumstances,  be- 
tween  these  two  descriptions  of,  as  it  would  seem,  the 


34  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

same  thing,  must  be  very  apparent.  "  I  will  submit,'* 
says  the  baron,  "  the  solution  of  this  problem  to  the 
public."  We  shall  follow  his  example. 

The  Honorable  Henry  Grattan,  to  whom  the  baron 
dedicates  his  work,  has  said,  that  the  poems  which  it 
contains  are  calculated  to  inspire  "  valor,  wisdom,  and 
virtue."  It  is  true,  that  they  are  adorned  with  nume- 
rous beauties  both  of  poetry  and  morality.  They  are 
still  farther  distinguished  and  illumined  by  noble  allu- 
sions to  the  Omnipotent,  which  cannot  fail  to  strike  the 
reader  as  a  particular  in  which  they  remarkably  vary 
from  those  of  Mr.  Macpherson.  "  In  his,"  says  our 
author,  "  there  is  no  mention  of  the  Divinity.  In  these, 
the  chief  characteristic  is  the  many  solemn  descriptions 
of  the  Almighty  Being,  which  give  a  degree  of  eleva- 
tion to  them  unattainable  by  any  other  method.  It  is 
worthy  of  observation  how  the  bard  gains  in  sublimity 
by  his  magnificent  display  of  the  power,  bounty,  eter- 
nity, and  justice  of  God :  and  every  reader  must  re- 
joice to  find  the  venerable  old  warrior  occupied  in  de- 
scriptions so  worthy  his  great  and  comprehensive 
genius,  and  to  see  him  freed  from  the  imputation  of 
atheism,  with  which  he  had  been  branded  by  many  sa- 
gacious and  impartial  men."  P.  vi. 

We  could  willingly  transcribe  more  of  these  poems, 
but  we  have  already  quoted  enough  to  show  the  style 
of  them,  and  can  spare  space  for  no  additions.  "  La- 
mor,  a  poem,"  is,  the  baron  thinks,  of  a  more  ancient 
date  than  that  of  Ossian,  and  "  the  model,  perhaps,  of 
his  compositions."  Another,  called  "  Sitric,"  king  of 
Dublin,  which  throws  some  light  on  the  history  of  those 
times,  he  places  in  the  ninth  century.  What  faith, 
however,  is  to  be  put  in  the  genuineness  of  the  "  Frag 

*  If  Mr.  Laing  should  choose  to  take  the  trouble  of  passing  them 
through  his  alembic,  ihey  may  easily  be  disposed  of.  For  instance, 
"  Larnel,  or  the  Song  of  despair :" 


A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  35 

ments,"*  which  Baron  de  Harold  assures  us  furnished 
him  with  the  ground- work  of  these  poems,  we  leave  it 
to  others  to  ascertain.  Our  investigation  is  confined 
within  far  narrower  limits. 

It  has,  without  doubt,  been  observed  that  in  noticing 
what  has  transpired  on  this  subject  since  our  last  edi- 
tion, we  have  carefully  avoided  any  dogmatism  on  the 
question  collectedly ;  and  having  simply  displayed  a 
torch  to  show  the  paths  which  lead  to  the  labyrinth, 
those  who  wish  to  venture  more  deeply  into  its  intrica- 
cies, may,  when  they  please,  pursue  them. 

We  must  acknowledge,  before  we  depart,  that  we 
cannot  see  without  indig-nation,  or  rather  pity,  the  be- 
lief of  some  persons  that  these  poems  are  the  offspring 
of  Macpherson's  genius,  so  operating  on  their  minds  as 
to  turn  their  admiration  of  the  ancient  poet  into  contempt 
of  the  modern.  We  ourselves  love  antiquity,  not  merely 
however,  on  account  of  its  antiquity,  but  because  it  de- 
serves to  be  loved.  No  :  we  honestly  own  with  Quin- 
tilian,  in  quibusdam  antiquorum,  vix  risum,  in  quibus- 
dam  autem  vix  somnum  tenere*  The  songs  of  other 
times,  when  they  are,  as  they  frequently  are,  supremely 
beautiful,  merit  every  praise,  but  we  must  not  there- 
fore despise  all  novelty.  In  the  days  of  the  Theban 
bard,  it  would  seem  to  have  been  otherwise,  for  he  ap- 


"  The_  dreary  night-owl  screams  in  the  solitary  retreat  of  hia 
mouldering  ivy-c9vered  tower,"  p.  163.  Taken  from  the  Persian 
poet  Quoted  by  Gibbon  : 

"  The  owl  hath  sung  her  watch-song  in  the  towers  of  Afrasiab  " 

"  All  nature  is  consonant  to  the  horrors  of  my  mind."  Larnel, 
p.  163.  Evidently  from  the  rhythmas  of  the  Portuguese  poet.  One 
in  despair,  calls  the  desolation  of  nature 

" lugar  conforme  a  meu  cuidado." 

Obras  de  Camoens,  t.  iii.  p.  115 

Mr.  Laing  may  pronounce  this  learned,  but  it  is  at  any  rate  aa 
foolish  as  it  is  learned. 

*  Quintilian  or  Tacitus  de  Oratoribus. 


36  A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE. 

pears  to  give  the  preference  to  old  wine,  but  naw 
songs — 

aivti  Se  jraXatov 
fiev  bivov,  avOea  S'  itftvuv 
vcairepa,v. — Find.  Ol.  Od.  is. 

With  respect  to  age  in  wine  we  are  tolerably  agreed, 
but  we  differ  widely  in  regard  to  novelty  in  verse. 
Though  warranted  in  some  measure,  yet  all  inordinate 
prepossessions  should  be  moderated,  and  it  would  be 
well  if  we  were  occasionally  to  reflect  on  this  question, 
if  the  ancients  had  been  so  inimicable  to  novelty  as  we 
are,  what  would  now  be  old  ?* 

We  shall  not  presume  to  affirm  that  these  poems 
were  originally  produced  by  Macpherson,  but  admit- 
ting it,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  it  would  then,  per- 
haps, be  just  to  ascribe  all  the  mystery  that  has  hung 
about  them  to  the  often  ungenerous  dislike  of  novelty, 
or,  it  may  be  more  truly,  the  efforts  of  contemporaries, 
which  influences  the  present  day.  This  might  have 
stimulated  him  to  seek  in  the  garb  of  "  th'  olden  time," 
that  respect  which  is  sometimes  despitefully  denied  to 
drapery  of  a  later  date.  Such  a  motive  doubtlessly 
swayed  the  designs  both  of  Chatterton  and  Ireland, 
whose  names  we  cannot  mention  together  without 
Dryden's  comment  on  Spenser  and  Flecknoe,  "  that  is, 
from  the  top  to  the  bottom  of  all  poetry."  In  ushering 
into  the  world  the  hapless,  but  beautiful  muse  of  Chat- 
terton, as  well  as  the  contemptible  compositions  of  Ire- 
land, it  was  alike  thought  necessary,  to  secure  public 
attention,  to  have  recourse  to  "  quaint  Inglis,"  or  an  an- 
tique dress.  And  to  the  eternal  disgrace  of  preju- 
dice, the  latter,  merely  in  consequence  of  their  dis- 
guise, found  men  blind  enough  to  advocate  their  claims 
to  that  admiration  which,  on  theiv  eyes  being  opened, 

*  See  Horace. 


A   PRELIMINARY   DISCOURSE.  37 

they  could  no  longer  see,  and  from  the  support  of 
which  they  shrunk  abashed. 

But  we  desist.  It  is  useless  to  draw  conclusions,  as 
it  is  vain  to  reason  with  certain  people  who  act  un- 
reasonably, since,  if  they  were,  in  these  particular 
cases,  capable  of  reason,  they  would  need  no  reasoning 
with.  By  some,  the  poems  here  published  will  be 
esteemed  in  proportion  as  the  argument  for  their  an- 
tiquity prevails ;  but  with  regard  to  the  general  reader, 
and  the  unaffected  lovers  of  "  heaven-descended  poesy,*' 
let  the  question  take  either  way,  still 

The  harp  in  Selma  was  not  idly  strung, 
And  long  shall  last  the  themes  our  poet  sung. 

Fei.  1,1806. 


PREFACE. 


WITHOUT  increasing  his  genius,  the  author  may  have 
improved  his  language,  in  the  eleven  years  that  the 
following  poems  have  been  in  the  hands  of  the  public. 
Errors  in  diction  might  have  been  committed  at  twenty- 
four,  which  the  experience  of  a  riper  age  may  remove ; 
and  some  exuberances  in  imagery  may  be  restrained 
with  advantage,  by  a  degree  of  judgment  acquired  in 
the  progress  of  time.  Impressed  with  this  opinion,  he 
ran  over  the  whole  with  attention  and  accuracy ;  and 
he  hopes  he  has  brought  the  work  to  a  state  of  correct- 
ness which  will  preclude  all  future  improvements. 

The  eagerness  with  which  these  poems  have  been 
received  abroad,  is  a  recompense  for  the  coldness  with 
which  a  few  have  affected  to  treat  them  at  home.  All 
the  polite  nations  of  Europe  have  transferred  them  into 
their  respective  languages  ;  and  they  speak  of  him  who 
brought  them  to  light,  in  terms  that  might  flatter  the 
vanity  of  one  fond  of  fame.  In  a  convenient  indiffer- 
ence for  a  literary  reputation,  the  author  hears  praise 
without  being  elevated,  and  ribaldry  without  being  de- 
pressed. He  has  frequently  seen  the  first  bestowed 
too  precipitately ;  and  the  latter  is  so  faithless  to  its 
purpose,  that  it  is  often  the  only  index  to  merit  in  the 
present  age. 

Though  the  taste  which  defines  genius  by  the  points 
of  the  compass,  is  a  subject  fit  for  mirth  in  itself,  it  is 


PREFACE.  39 

often  a  serious  matter  in  the  sale  of  the  work.  When 
rivers  define  the  limits  of  abilities,  as  well  as  the  boun- 
daries of  countries,  a  writer  may  measure  his  success 
by  the  latitude  under  which  he  was  born.  It  was  to 
avoid  a  part  of  this  inconvenience,  that  the  author  is 
said  by  some,  who  speak  without  any  authority,  to  nave 
ascribed  his  own  productions  to  another  name.  If 
this  was  the  case,  he  was  but  young  in  the  art  of  decep- 
tion. When  he  placed  the  poet  in  antiquity,  the 
translator  should  have  been  born  on  this  side  of  the 
Tweed. 

These  observations  regard  only  the  frivolous  in  mat- 
ters of  literature  ;  these,  however,  form  a  majority  of 
every  age  and  nation.  In  this  country  men  of  genuine 
taste  abound ;  but  their  still  voice  is  drowned  in  the 
clamors  of  a  multitude,  who  judge  by  fashion  of  poetry, 
as  of  dress.  The  truth  is,  to  judge  aright,  requires 
almost  as  much  genius  as  to  write  well  •  and  good 
critics  are  as  rare  as  great  poets.  Though  two  hun- 
dred thousand  Romans  stood  up  when  Virgil  came  into 
the  theatre,  Varius  only  could  correct  the  jEneid.  He 
that  obtains  fame  must  receive  it  through  mere  fashion ; 
and  gratify  his  vanity  with  the  applause  of  men,  of 
whose  judgment  he  cannot  approve. 

The  following  poems,  it  must  be  confessed,  are  more 
calculated  to  please  persons  of  exquisite  feelings  of 
heart,  than  those  who  receive  all  their  impressions  by 
the  ear.  The  novelty  of  cadence,  in  what  is  called  a 
prose  version,  though  not  destitute  of  harmony,  will 
not,  to  common  readers,  supply  the  absence  of  the  fre- 
quent returns  of  rhyme.  This  was  the  opinion  of  the 
writer  himself,  though  he  yielded  to  the  judgment  of 
others,  in  a  mode,  which  presented  freedom  and  dignity 
of  expression,  instead  of  fetters,  which  cramp  the 
thought,  whilst  the  harmony  of  language  is  preserved, 
His  intention  was  to  publish  in  verse. — The  making  of 


40  PREFACE. 

poetry,  like  any  other  handicraft,  may  be  learned  by 
industry ;  and  he  had  served  his  apprenticeship,  though 
in  secret,  to  the  Muses. 

It  is,  however,  doubtful,  whether  the  harmony  which 
these  poems  might  derive  from  rhyme,  even  in  much 
better  hands  than  those  of  the  translator,  could  atone 
for  the  simplicity  and  energy  which  they  would  lose. 
The  determination  of  this  point  shall  be  left  to  the 
readers  of  this  preface.  The  following  is  the  begin, 
ning  of  a  poem,  translated  from  the  Norse  to  the 
Gaelic  language ;  and,  from  the  latter,  transferred  in- 
to English.  The  verse  took  little  more  time  to  the 
writer  than  the  prose  ;  and  he  himself  is  doubtful  (if  he 
has  succeeded  in  either)  which  of  them  is  the  most 
literal  version. 

FRAGMENT  OF  A  NORTHERN  TALE. 

WHERE  Harold,  with  golden  hair,  spread  o'er  Loch- 
linn*  his  high  commands  ;  where,  with  justice,  he  ruled 
the  tribes,  who  sunk,  subdued,  beneath  his  sword ;  ab- 
rupt rises  Gormalj-  in  snow !  the  tempests  roll  dark  on 
his  sides,  but  calm,  above,  his  vast  forehead  appears. 
White-issuing  from  the  skirt  of  his  storms,  the  troubled 
torrents  pour  down  his  sides.  Joining,  as  they  roar 
along,  they  bear  the  Torno,  in  foam,  to  the  main. 

Gray  on  the  bank,  and  far  from  men,  half-covered, 
by  ancient  pines,  from  the  wind,  a  lonely  pile  exalts 
its  head,  long  shaken  by  the  storms  of  the  north.  To 
this  fled  Sigurd,  fierce  in  fight,  from  Harold  the  leader 
of  armies,  when  fate  had  brightened  his  spear  with  re- 
nown :  when  he  conquered  in  that  rude  field,  where 
Lulan's  warriors  fell  in  blood,  or  rose  in  terror  on  the 
waves  of  the  main.  Darkly  sat  the  gray-haired  chief; 

*  The  Gaelic  name  of  Scandinavia,  or  Scandinia 

*  The  mountains  of  Sevo 


PREFACE.  41 

yet  sorrow  dwelt  not  in  his  soul.  But  when  the  war- 
rior  thought  on  the  past,  his  proud  heart  heaved 
against  his  side  :  forth  flew  his  sword  from  its  place : 
he  wounded  Harold  in  all  the  winds. 

One  daughter,  and  only  one,  but  bright  in  form  and 
rnild  of  soul,  the  last  beam  of  the  setting  line,  remained 
to  Sigurd  of  all  his  race.  His  son,  in  Lulan's  battle 
slain,  beheld  not  his  father's  flight  from  his  foes.  Nor 
finished  seemed  the  ancient  line !  The  splendid  beauty 
of  bright-eyed  Fithon  covered  still  the  fallen  king  with 
renown.  Her  arm  was  white  like  Gormal's  snow  ;  her 
bosom  whiter  than  the  foam  of  the  main,  when  roll  the 
waves  beneath  the  wrath  of  the  winds.  Like  two  stars 
were  her  radiant  eyes,  like  two  stars  that  rise  on  the 
deep,  wheu  dark  tumult  embroils  the  night.  Pleasant 
are  their  beams  aloft,  as  stately  they  ascend  the  skies». 

Nor  Odin  forgot,  in  aught,  the  maid.  Her  form 
scarce  equalled  her  lofty  mind.  Awe  moved  around 
her  stately  steps.  Heroes  loved — but  shrunk  away  in 
their  fears.  Yet,  midst  the  pride  of  all  her  charms,  her 
heart  was  soft  and  her  soul  was  kind.  She  saw  the 
mournful  with  tearful  eyes.  Transient  darkness  arose 
in  her  breast.  Her  joy  was  in  the  chase.  Each 
morning,  when  doubtful  light  wandered  dimly  on  Lu- 
lan's waves,  she  roused  the  resounding  woods  to  Gor- 
mal's head  of  snow.  Nor  moved  the  maid  alone,  &c. 

The  same  versified. 

Where  fair-hair'd  Harold,  o'er  Scandinia  reign'd, 
And  held  with  justice  what  his  valor  gain'd, 
Sevo,  in  snow,  his  rugged  "forehead  rears, 
And,  o'er  the  warfare  of  his  storms,  appears 
Abrupt  and  vast. — White  wandering  down  his  side 
A  thousand  torrents,  gleaming  as  they  glide, 
Unite  below,  and,  pouring  through  the  plain, 
Hurry  the  troubled  Tomo  to  the  main. 
4* 


42  PREFACE. 

Gray,  on  the  bank,  remote  from  human  kind, 
By  aged  pines  half-shelter'd  from  the  wind, 
A  homely  mansion  rose,  of  antique  form, 
For  ages  batter'd  by  the  polar  storm. 
To  this,  fierce  Sigurd  fled  from  Norway's  lord, 
When  fortune  settled  on  the  warrior's  sword, 
In  that  rude  field,  where  Suecia's  chiefs  were  slain, 
Or  forc'd  to  wander  o'er  the  Bothnic  main. 
Dark  was  his  life,  yet  undisturb'd  with  woes, 
But  when  the  memory  of  defeat  arose, 
His  proud  heart  struck  his  side  ;  he  grasp'd  the  spear, 
And  wounded  Harold  in  the  vacant  air. 

One  daughter  only,  but  of  form  divine, 
The  last  fair  beam  of  the  departing  line, 
Remain'd  of  Sigurd's  race.     His  warlike  son 
Fell  in  the  shock  which  overturn'd  the  throne. 
Nor  desolate  the  house  !     Fionia's  charms 
Sustain'd  the  glory  which  they  lost  in  arms. 
White  was  her  arm  as  Sevo's  .ofty  snow, 
Her  bosom  fairer  than  the  waves  below 
When  heaving  to  the  winds.     Her  radiant  eyes 
Like  two  bright  stars,  exulting  as  they  rise, 
O'er  the  dark  tumult  of  a  stormy  night, 
And  gladd'ning  heaven  with  their  majestic  light. 

In  nought  is  Odin  to  the  maid  unkind, 
Her  form  scarce  equals  her  exalted  mind ; 
Awe  leads  her  sacred  steps  where'er  they  move, 
And  mankind  worship  where  they  dare  not  love. 
But  mix'd  with  softness  was  the  virgin's  pride, 
Her  heart  had  feeling,  which  her  eyes  denied ; 
Her  bright  tears  started  at  another's  woes, 
While  transient  darkness  on  her  soul  arose. 

The  chase  she  lov'd ;  when  morn  with  doubtful  beam 
Came  dimly  wand'ring  o'er  the  Bothnic  stream, 
On  Sevo's  sounding  sides  she  bent  the  bow, 
And  rous'd  his  forests  to  his  head  of  snow.  I; 

Nor  moved  the  maid  alone,  &c. 


PREFACE.  43 

One  of  the  chief  improvements,  in  this  edition,  is  the 
care  taken  in  arranging  the  poems  in  the  order  of 
time ;  so  as  to  form  a  khid  of  regular  history  of  the 
age  to  which  they  relate.  The  writer  has  now  resigned 
them  forever  to  their  fate.  That  they  have  been  well 
received  by  the  public  appears  from  an  extensive  sale  ; 
that  they  shall  continue  to  be  well  received,  he  may 
venture  to  prophesy,  without  the  gift  of  that  inspiration 
to  which  poets  lay  claim.  Through  the  medium  of 
version  upon  version,  they  retain,  in  foreign  languages, 
their  native  character  of  simplicity  and  energy.  Gen 
uine  poetry,  like  gold,  loses  little,  when  properly  trans 
fused ;  but  when  a  composition  cannot  bear  the  test  of 
a  literal  version,  it  is  a  counterfeit  which  ought  not  to 
pass  current.  The  operation  must,  however,  be  per 
formed  with  skilful  hands.  A  translator  who  cannot 
equal  his  original,  is  incapable  of  expressing  its  beau- 
ties. 

London, 

Aug.  is,  ma 


DISSERTATION 


COXCER51SO 


THE   JERA  OF  OSSIAN, 


INQUIRIES  into  the  antinntiies  of  nations  afford  moie 
pleasure  than  any  real  advantage  to  mankind.  The 
ingenious  may  form  systems  of  history  on  probabilities 
and  a  few  facts ;  but,  at  a  great  distance  of  time,  their 
accounts  must  be  vague  ar*d  uncertain.  The  infancy 
of  states  and  kingdoms  is  as  destitute  of  great  events, 
as  of  the  means  of  transmitting  them  to  posterity. 
The  arts  of  polished  life,  by  which  alone  facts  can  be 
preserved  with  certainty,  are  the  production  of  a  well- 
formed  community.  It  is  then  historians  begin  to 
write,  and  public  transactions  to  be  worthy  remem 
b ranee.  The  actions  of  former  times  are  left  in  ob- 
scurity,  or  magnified  by  uncertain  traditions.  Heno* 
it  is  that  we  find  so  much  of  the  marvellous  in  the  ori 
gin  of  every  nation  ;  posterity  being  always  ready  te- 
believe  any  thing,  however  fabulous,  that  reflects  hono* 
on  their  ancestors. 

The  Greeks  and  Romans  were  remarkable  for  this 
weakness.  They  swallowed  the  most  absurd  fables 
concerning  the  high  antiquities  of  their  respective  na- 
tions. Good  historians,  however,  rose  very  early 


DISSERTATION,  ETC.  45 

amongst  them^  and  transmitted,  with  lustre,  their  great 
actions  to  posterity.  It  is  to  them  that  they  owe  that 
unrivalled  fame  they  now  enjoy ;  while  the  great  ac- 
tions of  other  nations  are  involved  in  fables,  or  lost  in 
obscurity.  The  Celtic  nations  afford  a  striking  instance 
of  this  kind.  They,  though  once  the  masters  of  Eu- 
rope, from  the  mouth  of  the  river  Oby,  in  Russia,  to 
Cape  Finisterre,  the  western  point  of  Gallicia,  in  Spain, 
are  very  little  mentioned  in  history.  They  trusted 
their  fame  to  tradition  and  the  songs  of  their  bards, 
which,  by  the  vicissitude  of  human  affairs,  are  long 
since  lost.  Their  ancient  language  is  the  only  monu- 
ment that  remains  of  them  ;  and  the  traces  of  it  being 
found  in  places  so  widely  distant  from  each  other, 
serves  only  to  show  the  extent  of  their  ancient  power, 
but  throws  very  little  light  on  their  history. 

Of  all  the  Celtic  nations,  that  which  possessed  old 
Gaul  is  the  most  renowned  :  not  perhaps  on  account  of 
worth  superior  to  the  rest,  but  for  their  wars  with  a 
people  who  had  historians  to  transmit  the  fame  of  their 
enemies,  as  well  as  their  own,  to  posterity.  Britain 
was  first  peopled  by  them,  according  to  the  testimony 
of  the  best  authors ;  its  situation  in  respect  to  Gaul 
makes  the  opinion  probable ;  but  what  puts  it  beyond 
all  dispute,  is,  that  the  same  customs  and  language 
prevailed  among  the  inhabitants  of  both  in  the  days  of 
Julius  Csesar. 

The  colony  from  Gaul  possessed  themselves,  at  first, 
of  that  part  of  Britain  which  was  next  to  their  own 
country ;  and  spreading  northward  by  degrees,  as  they 
increased  in  numbers,  peopled  the  whole  island.  Some 
adventurers  passing  over  from  those  parts  of  Britain 
that  are  within  sight  of  Ireland,  were  the  founders  of 
the  Irish  nation  :  which  is  a  more  probable  story  than 
the  idle  fables  of  Milesian  and  Gallician  colonies. 
Diodorus  Siculus  mentions  it  as  a  thing  well  known  in 


46  DISSERTATION  ON 

his  time,  that  the  inhabitants  of  Ireland  were  originally 
Britons ;  and  his  testimony  is  unquestionable,  when 
we  consider  that,  for  many  ages,  the  language  and  cus- 
toms of  both  nations  were  the  same. 

Tacitus  was  of  opinion  that  the  ancient  Caledonians 
were  of  German  extract ;  but  even  the  ancient  Ger- 
mans themselves  were  Gauls.  The  present  Germans, 
properly  so  called,  were  not  the  same  with  the  ancient 
Celtae.  The  manners  and  customs  of  the  two  nations 
were  similar ;  but  their  language  different.  The  Ger 
mans  are  the  genuine  descendants  of  the  ancient  Scan 
dinavians,  who  crossed,  at  an  early  period,  the  Baltic. 
The  Celtae,  anciently,  sent  many  colonies  into  Ger- 
many, all  of  whom  retained  their  own  laws,  language, 
and  customs,  till  they  were  dissipated,  in  the  Roman 
empire  ;  and  it  is  of  them,  if  any  colonies  came  from 
Germany  into  Scotland,  that  the  ancient  Caledonians 
were  descended. 

But  whether  the  ancient  Caledonians  were  a  colony 
of  the  Celtic  Germans,  or  the  same  with  the  Gauls  that 
first  possessed  themselves  of  Britain,  is  a  matter  of  no 
moment  at  this  distance  of  time.  Whatever  their  ori- 
gin was,  we  find  them  very  numerous  in  the  time  of 
Julius  Agricola,  which  is  a  presumption  that  they  were 
long  before  settled  in  the  country.  The  form  of  their 
government  was  a  mixture  of  aristocracy  and  mon- 
archy, as  it  was  in  all  the  countries  where  the  Druids 
bore  the  chief  sway.  This  order  of  men  seems  to 
have  been  formed  on  the  same  principles  with  the  Dac- 
tyli,  Idee,  and  Curetes  of  the  ancients.  Their  pretended 
intercourse  with  heaven,  their  magic  and  divination, 
were  the  same.  The  knowledge  of  the  Druids  in  natu- 
ral causes,  and  the  properties  of  certain  things,  the 
fruits  of  the  experiments  of  ages,  gained  them  a  mighty 
reputation  among  the  people.  The  esteem  of  the 
populace  soon  inci  eased  into  a  veneration  for  the  or- 


THE  .ERA  OF  OSSIAN.  47 

der ;  which  these  cunning  and  ambitious  priests  took 
care  to  improve,  to  such  a  degree,  that  they,  in  a  man- 
ner,  engrossed  the  management  of  civil,  as  well  as  re- 
ligious matters.  It  is  generally  allowed,  that  they  did 
not  abuse  this  extraordinary  power  ;  the  preserving  the 
character  of  sanctity  was  so  essential  to  their  influ- 
ence, that  they  never  broke  out  into  violence  or 
oppression.  The  chiefs  were  allowed  to  execute  the 
laws,  but  the  legislative  power  was  entirely  in  the 
hands  of  the  Druids.  It  was  by  their  authority  that 
the  tribes  were  united,  in  times  of  the  greatest  danger, 
under  one  head.  This  temporary  king,  or  Vergobre- 
tus,  was  chosen  by  them,  and  generally  laid  down  his 
office  at  the  end  of  the  war.  These  priests  enjoyed 
long  this  extraordinary  privilege  among  the  Celtic  na- 
tions who  lay  beyond  the  pale  of  the  Roman  emp;re. 
It  was  in  the  beginning  of  the  second  century  that  their 
power  among  the  Caledonians  began  to  decline.  The 
traditions  concerning  Trathal  and  Cormac,  ancestors 
to  Fingal,  are  full  of  the  particulars  of  the  fall  of  the 
Druids :  a  singular  fate  it  must  be  owned,  of  priests 
who  had  once  established  their  superstition. 

The  continual  wars  of  the  Caledonians  against  the 
Romans,  hindered  the  bettor  sort  from  initiating  them- 
selves, as  the  custom  formerly  was,  into  the  order  of 
the  Druids.  The  precepts  of  their  religion  were  con- 
tined  to  a  few,  and  were  not  much  attended  to  by  a 
people  inured  to  war.  The  Vergobretus,  or  chief 
magistrate,  was  chosen  without  the  concurrence  of  the 
Hierarchy,  or  continued  in  his  office  against  their  will. 
Continual  power  strengthened  his  interest  among  the 
iribes,  and  enabled  him  to  send  down,  as  hereditary  to 
his  posterity,  the  office  he  had  only  received  himself 
by  election. 

On  occasion  of  a  new  war  against  the  "  king  of  tba 
world,"  as  tradition  emphatically  calls  the  Roman  em- 


48  DISSERTATION  ON 

peror,  the  Druids,  to  vindicate  the  honor  of  the  order, 
began  to  resume  their  ancient  privilege  of  choosing  the 
Vergobretus.  Garmal,  the  son  of  Tarno,  being  de- 
puted by  them,  came  to  the  grandfather  of  the  cele- 
brated Fingal,  who  was  then  Vergobretus,  and  com- 
manded him,  in  the  name  of  the  whole  order,  to  lay 
down  his  office.  Upon  his  refusal,  a  civil  war  com- 
menced, which  soon  ended  in  almost  the  total  extinction 
of  the  religious  order  of  the  Druids.  A  few  that  re- 
mained, retired  to  the  dark  recesses  of  their  groves, 
and  the  caves  they  had  formerly  used  for  their  medita- 
tions. It  is  then  we  find  them  in  the  circle  of  stones, 
and  unheeded  by  the  world.  A  total  disregard  for  the 
order,  and  utter  abhorrence  of  the  Druidical  rites  en- 
sued. Under  this  cloud  of  public  hate,  all  that  had  any 
knowledge  of  the  religion  of  the  Druids  became  ex- 
tinct, and  the  nation  fell  into  the  last  degree  of  igno- 
rance of  their  rites  and  ceremonies. 

It  is  ho  matter  of  wonder,  then,  that  Fingal  and  his 
son  Ossian  disliked  the  Druids,  who  were  the  declared 
enemies  to  their  succession  in  the  supreme  magistracy. 
It  is  a  singular  case,  it  must  be  allowed,  that  there  are 
no  traces  of  religion  in  the  poems  ascribed  to  Ossian, 
as  the  poetical  compositions  of  other  nations  are  so 
closely  connected  with  their  mythology.  But  gods  are 
not  necessary,  when  the  poet  has  genius.  It  is  hard  to 
account  for  it  to  those  who  are  not  made  acquainted 
with  the  manner  of  the  old  Scottish  bards.  That  race 
of  men  carried  their  notions  of  martial  honor  to  an  ex- 
travagant pitch.  Any  aid  given  their  heroes  in  battle, 
was  thought  to  derogate  from  their  fame ;  and  the 
bards  immediately  transferred  the  glory  of  the  action 
to  him  who  had  given  that  aid. 

Had  the  poet  brought  down  gods,  as  often  as  Homei 
has  done,  to  assist  his  heroes,  his  work  had  not  con. 
sisted  of  eulogiums  on  men,  but  of  hymns  to  sujxjrioi 


THE  JERA  OF  OSSIAN.  49 

beings.  Those  who  write  in  the  Gaelic  language  sel- 
dom mention  religion  in  their  profane  poetry ;  and 
wljien  they  professedly  write  of  religion,  they  never 
mix,  with  their  compositions,  the  actions  of  their  he- 
roes. This  custom  alone,  even  though  the  religion  of 
the  Druids  had  not  been  been  previously  extinguished, 
may,  in  some  measure,  excuse  the  author's  silence  con- 
cerning the  religion  of  ancient  times. 

To  allege  that  a  nation  is  void  of  all  religion,  betrays 
ignorance  of  the  history  of  mankind.  The  traditions 
of  their  fathers,  and  their  own  observations  on  the 
works  of  nature,  together  with  that  superstition  which 
is  inherent  in  the  human  frame,  have,  in  all  ages, 
raised  in  the  minds  of  men  some  idea  of  a  superior 
being.  Hence  it  is,  that  in  the  darkest  times,  and 
amongst  the  most  barbarous  nations,  the  very  populace 
themselves  had  some  faint  notion,  at  least,  of  a  divinity. 
The  Indians,  who  worship  no  God,  believe  that  he  ex- 
ists. It  would  be  doing  injustice  to  the  author  of  these 
poems,  to  think  that  he  had  not  opened  his  conceptions 
to  that  primitive  and  greatest  of  all  truths.  But  let  his 
religion  be  what  it  will,  it  is  certain  that  he  has  not  al- 
luded to  Christianity  or  any  of  its  rites,  in  his  poems  ; 
which  ought  to  fix  his  opinions,  at  least,  to  an  era  prior 
to  that  religion.  Conjectures,  on  this  subject,  must 
supply  the  place  of  proof.  The  persecution  begun  by 
Dioclesian,  in  the  year  303,  is  the  most  probable  time 
in  which  the  first  dawning  of  Christianity  in  the  north 
of  Britain  can  be  fixed.  The  humane  and  mild  char- 
acter of  Constantius  Chlorus,  who  commanded  then  in 
Britain,  induced  the  persecuted  Christians  to  take  refuge 
under  him.  Some  of  them,  through  a  zeal  to  propa- 
gate their  tenets,  or  through  fear,  went  beyond  the  pale 
of  the  Roman  empire,  and  settled  among  the  Caledo- 
nians ;  who  were  ready  to  hearken  to  their  doctrines, 
if  the  religion  of  the  Druids  wa»  exploded  long  befo:  e. 
5 


50  DISSERTATION  ON 

These  missionaries,  either  through  choice,  or  to  give 
more  weight  to  the  doctrine  they  advanced,  took  pos- 
session of  the  cells  and  groves  of  the  Druids ;  and  it 
was  from  this  retired  life  they  had  the  name  of  Cul- 
dees,  which,  in  the  language  of  the  countiy,  signified 
"the  sequestered  persons."  It  was  with  one  of  the 
Culdees  that  Ossian,  in  his  extreme  old  age,  is  said  to 
have  disputed  concerning  the  Christian  religion.  This 
dispute  they  say,  is  extant,  and  is  couched  in  verse,  ac- 
cording to  the  custom  of  the  times.  The  extreme 
ignorance  on  the  part  of  Ossian  of  the  Christian  tenets, 
shows  that  that  religion  had  only  lately  been  introduced, 
as  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  how  one  of  the  first  rank 
could  be  totally  unacquainted  with  a  religion  that  had 
been  known  for  any  time  in  the  country.  The  dispute 
bears  the  genuine  marks  of  antiquity.  The  obsolete 
phrases  and  expressions,  peculiar  to  the  time,  prove  it 
to  be  no  forgery.  If  Ossian,  then,  lived  at  the  intro- 
duction of  Christianity,  as  by  all  appearance  he  did, 
his  epoch  will  be  the  latter  end  of  the  third,  and  begin- 
ning of  the  fourth  century.  Tradition  here  steps  in 
with  a  kind  of  proof. 

The  exploits  of  Fingal  against  Caracul,  the  son  of 
the  "  king  of  the  world,"  are  among  the  first  brave 
actions  of  his  youth.  A  complete  poem,  which  relates 
to  this  subject,  is  printed  in  this  collection. 

In  the  year  210,  the  Emperor  Severus,  after  return- 
ing from  his  expedition  against  the  Caledonians  at 
York,  fell  into  the  tedious  illness  of  which  he  after- 
ward died.  The  Caledonians  and  Maiatse,  resuming 
courage  from  his  indisposition,  took  arms  in  order  to 
recover  the  possessions  they  had  lost.  The  enraged 
emperor  commanded  his  army  to  march  into  their 
country,  and  to  destroy  it  with  fire  and  sword.  His 
orders  were  but  ill  executed  ;  for  his  son  Caracalla  was 
at  the  head  of  the  army,  and  his  thoughts  were  entirely 


TBS  2ERA  OF  OSSIAN.  51 

taken  up  with  the  hopes  of  his  father's  death,  and  with 
schemes,  to  supplant  his  brother  Geta.  He  scarcely 
had  entered  into  the  enemy's  country,  when  news  was 
vrought  him  that  Severus  was  dead.  A  sudden  peace 
fe  patched  up  with  the  Caledonians,  and,  as  it  appears 
fi>om  Dion  Cassius,  the  country  they  had  lost  to  Severus 
•vas  restored  to  them. 

The  Caracul  of  Fingal  is  no  other  than  Caracalla, 
who  as  the  son  of  Severus,  the  emperor  of  Rome, 
whose  dominions  were  extended  almost  over  the  known 
world,  was  not  without  reason  called  the  "  son  of  the 
king  of  the  world."  The  space  of  time  between  211, 
the  year  Severus  died,  and  the  beginning  of  the  fourth 
century  is  not  so  great,  but  Ossian,  the  son  of  Fingal, 
might  have  seen  the  Christians  whom  the  persecution 
under  Dioclesian  had  driven  beyond  the  pale  of  the 
Roman  empire. 

In  one  of  the  many  lamentations  of  the  death  of  Os- 
car, a  battle  which  he  fought  against  Caros,  king  of 
ships,  on  the  banks  of  the  winding  Carun,  is  mentioned 
among  his  great  actions.  It  is  more  than  probable, 
that  the  Caros  mentioned  here,  is  the  same  with  the 
noted  usurper  Carausius,  who  assumed  the  purple  in 
the  year  287,  and  seizing  on  Britain,  defeated  the  Em- 
peror Maximinian  Herculius  in  several  naval  engage- 
ments, which  gives  propriety  to  his  being  called  the 
"king  of  ships."  "The  winding  Carun,"  is  that 
small  river  retaining  still  the  name  of  Carron,  and  runs 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Agricola's  wall,  which  Carau- 
sius repaired,  to  obstruct  the  incursions  of  the  Caledo- 
nians. Several  other  passages  in  traditions  allude  to 
the  wars  of  the  Romans ;  but  the  two  just  mentioned 
clearly  fix  the  epocha  of  Fingal  to  the  third  century ; 
and  this  account  agrees  exactly  with  the  Irish  histories, 
which  place  the  death  of  Fingal,  the  son  of  Comhal,  in 


52  DISSERTATION  OM 

the  year  293,  and  that  of  Oscar  and  their  own  cele- 
brated Cairbre,  in  the  year  296. 

Some  people  may  imagine,  that  the  allusions  to  the 
Roman  history  might  have  been  derived  by  tradition, 
from  learned  men,  more  than  from  ancient  poems. 
This  must  then  have  happened  at  least  three  hundred 
years  ago,  as  these  allusions  are  mentioned  often  in  the 
compositions  of  those  times. 

Every  one  knows  what  a  cloud  of  ignorance  and 
barbarism  overspread  the  north  of  Europe  three  hun- 
dred years  ago.  The  minds  of  men,  addicted  to  su- 
perstition, contracted  a  narrowness  that  destroyed  ge- 
nius. Accordingly  we  find  the  compositions  of  those 
times  trivial  and  puerile  to  the  last  degree.  But,  let 
it  be  allowed,  that,  amidst  all  the  untoward  circum- 
stances of  the  age,  a  genius  might  arise  ;  it  is  not  easy 
to  determine  what  could  induce  him  to  allude  to  the 
Roman  times.  We  find  no  fact  to  favor  any  designs 
which  could  be  entertained  by  any  man  who  lived  in 
the  fifteenth  century. 

The  strongest  objection  to  the  antiquity  of  the  poems 
now  given  to  the  public  under  the  name  of  Ossian,  is 
the  improbability  of  their  being  handed  down  by  tradi- 
tion through  so  many  centuries.  Ages  of  barbarism, 
some  will  say,  could  not  produce  poems  abounding  with 
the  disinterested  and  generous  sentiments  so  conspicu- 
ous in  the  compositions  of  Ossian ;  and  could  these 
ages  produce  them,  it  is  impossible  but  they  must  be 
lost,  or  altogether  corrupted,  in  a  long  succession  of 
barbarous  generations. 

Those  objections  naturally  suggest  themselves  to 
men  unacquainted  with  the  ancient  state  of  the  north- 
ern parts  of  Britain.  The  bards,  who  were  an  inferior 
order  of  the  Druids,  did  not  share  their  bad  fortune. 
They  were  spared  by  the  victorious  king,  as  it  was 
through  their  means  only  he  could  hope  for  immortality 


THE  JERA  OF  OSSIAN.  53 

to  his  fame  They  attended  him  in  the  camp,  and 
contributed  to  establish  his  power  by  their  songs.  His 
great  actions  were  magnified,  and  the  populace,  who 
had  no  ability  to  examine  into  his  character  narrowly, 
were  dazzled  with  his  fame  in  the  rhymes  of  the  bards. 
In  the  mean  time,  men  assumed  sentiments  that  are 
rarely  to  be  met  with  in  an  age  of  barbarism.  The 
bards,  who  were  originally  the  disciples  of  the  Druids, 
hid  their  minds  opened,  and  their  ideas  enlarged,  by 
being  initiated  into  the  learning  of  that  celebrated  order. 
They  could  form  a  perfect  hero  in  their  own  minds, 
and  ascribe  that  character  to  their  prince.  The  infe- 
rior chiefs  made  this  ideal  character  the  model  of  their 
conduct ;  and,  by  degrees,  brought  their  minds  to  that 
generous  spirit  which  breathes  in  all  the  poetry  of  the 
times.  The  prince,  flattered  by  his  bards,  and  rivalled 
by  his  own  heroes,  who  imitated  his  character  as  de- 
scribed in  the  eulogies  of  his  poets,  endeavored  to  ex- 
cel his  people  in  merit,  as  he  was  above  them  in  station. 
This  emulation  continuing,  formed  at  last  the  general 
character  of  the  nation,  happily  compounded  of  what 
is  noble  in  barbarity,  and  virtuous  and  generous  in  a 
polished  people. 

When  virtue  in  peace,  and  bravery  in  war,  are  the 
characteristics  of  a  nation,  their  actions  become  inter- 
esting, and  their  fame  worthy  of  immortality.  A  gen- 
erous spirit  is  warmed  with  noble  actions,  and  becomes 
ambitious  of  perpetuating  them.  This  is  the  true 
source  of  that  divine  inspiration,  to  which  the  poets  of 
all  ages  pretended.  When  they  found  their  themes 
inadequate  to  the  warmth  of  their  imaginations,  they 
varnished  them  over  with  fables  supplied  with  their  own 
fancy,  or  furnished  by  absurd  traditions.  These  fables, 
however  ridiculous,  had  their  abettors ;  posterity  either 
implicitly  believed  them,  or  through  a  vanity  natural  to 
mankind,  pretended  that  they  did.  They  loved  to 
5* 


54  DISt.fiRTATIOX  OX 

place  the  foundt  s  of  tfieir  families  in  the  days  of 
fable,  when  poetry,  without  the  fear  of  contradiction, 
could  give  what  character  she  pleased  of  her  heroes. 
It  is  to  this  vanity  that  we  owe  the  preservation  of  what 
remain  of  the  more  ancient  poems.  Their  poetical 
merit  made  their  heroes  famous  in  a  country  where 
heroism  was  much  esteemed  and  admired.  The  pos- 
terity of  these  heroes,  or  those  who  pretended  to  be 
descended  from  them,  heard  with  pleasure  the  eulo- 
giums  of  then-  ancestors ;  bards  were  employed  to  re- 
peat the  poems,  and  to  record  the  connection  of  their 
patrons  with  chiefs  so  renowned.  Every  chief,  in  pro- 
cess of  time,  had  a  bard  in  his  family,  and  the  office 
became  at  last  hereditary.  By  the  succession  of  these 
bards,  the  poems  concerning  the  ancestors  of  the  family 
were  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation ; 
they  were  repeated  to  the  whole  clan  on  solemn  occa- 
sions, and  always  alluded  to  in  the  new  compositions 
of  the  bards.  This  custom  came  down  to  near  our 
own  tunes ;  and  after  the  bards  were  discontinued,  a 
great  number  in  a  clan  retained  by  memory,  or  com- 
mitted to  writing,  their  compositions,  and  founded  the 
antiquity  of  their  families  on  the  authority  of  their 
poems. 

The  use  of  letters  was  not  known  in  the  north  of 
Europe  till  long  after  the  institution  of  the  bards :  the 
records  of  the  families  of  their  patrons,  their  own,  and 
more  ancient  poems,  were  handed  down  by  tradition. 
Their  poetical  compositioas  were  admirably  contrived 
for  that  purpose.  They  were  adapted  to  music ;  and 
the  most  perfect  harmony  was  observed.  Each  verse 
was  so  connected  with  those  which  preceded  or  followed 
it,  that  if  one  line  had  been  remembered  in  a  stanza,  it 
was  almost  impossible  to  forget  the  rest.  The  cadences 
followed  so  natural  a  gradation,  and  the  words  were  so 
adapted  to  the  common  turn  of  the  voice,  after  it  is 


THE  2ERA  OF  OSSIAN.  55 

raised  to  a  certain  key,  that  it  was  almost  impossible, 
from  a  similarity  of  sound,  to  substitute  one  word  for 
another.  This  excellence  is  peculiar  to  the  Celtic 
tongue,  and  is  perhaps  to  be  met  with  in  no  other  Ian- 
guage.  Nor  does  this  choice  of  words  clog  the  sense, 
or  weaken  the  expression.  The  numerous  flexions  of 
consonants,  and  variation  in- declension,  make  the  lan- 
guage very  copious. 

The  descendants  of  the  Celtse,  who  inhabited  Britain 
and  its  isles,  were  not  singular  in  this  method  of  pre- 
serving the  most  precious  monuments  of  their  nation. 
The  ancient  laws  of  the  Greeks  were  couched  in  verse, 
and  handed  down  by  tradition.  The  Spartans,  through 
a  long  habit,  became  so  fond  of  this  custom,  that  they 
would  never  allow  their  laws  to  be  committed  to  wri- 
ting. The  actions  of  great  men,  and  eulogiums  of 
kings  and  heroes,  were  preserved  in  the  same  manner. 
All  the  historical  monuments  of  the  old  Germans  were 
comprehended  in  their  ancient  songs;  which  were 
either  hymns  to  their  gods,  or  elegies  in  praise  of  their 
heroes,  and  were  intended  to  perpetuate  the  great 
events  in  their  nation,  which  were  carefully  interwoven 
with  them.  This  species  of  composition  was  not  com- 
mitted to  writing,  but  delivered  by  oral  tradition.  The 
care  they  took  to  have  the  poems  taught  to  their  chil- 
dren, the  uninterrupted  custom  of  repeating  them  upon 
certain  occasions,  and  the  happy  measure  of  (he  verse, 
served  to  preserve  them  for  a  long  time  uncorrupted. 
This  oral  chronicle  of  the  Germans  was  not  forgot  in 
the  eighth  century ;  and  it  probably  would  have  re- 
mained to  this  day,  had  not  learning,  which  thinks 
every  thing  that  is  not  committed  to  writing,  fabulous, 
been  introduced.  It  was  from  poetical  traditions  that 
Garcilasso  composed  his  account  of  the  Incas  of  Peru. 
The  Peruvians  had  lost  all  other  monuments  of  their 
liistory,  and  it  was  from  ancient  poems,  which  his  mo- 


56  DISSERTATION,  ETC. 

ther,  a  princess  of  the  blood  of  the  Incas,  taught  him  in 
his  youth,  that  he  collected  the  materials  of  his  history. 
If  other  nations,  then,  that  had  often  been  overrun  by 
enemies,  and  hath  sent  abroad  and  received  colonies, 
could  for  many  ages  preserve,  by  oral  tradition,  their 
laws  and  histories  uncorrupted,  it  is  much  more  proba- 
ble that  the  ancient  Scots,  a  people  so  free  of  intermix- 
ture with  foreigners,  and  so  strongly  attached  to  the 
memory  of  their  ancestors,  had  the  works  of  their 
bards  handed  down  with  great  purity. 

What  is  advanced  in  this  short  dissertation,  it  must 
be  confessed,  is  mere  conjecture.  Beyond  the  reach 
of  records  is  settled  a  gloom  which  no  ingenuity  can 
penetrate.  The  manners  described  in  these  poems 
suit  the  ancient  Celtic  times,  and  no  other  period  that 
is  known  in  history.  We  must,  therefore,  place  the 
heroes  far  back  in  antiquity  ;  and  it  matters  little,  who 
were  their  contemporaries  in  other  parts  of  the  world. 
If  we  have  placed  Fingal  hi  his  proper  period,  we  do 
honor  to  the  manners  of  barbarous  times.  He  exercised 
every  manly  virtue  in  Caledonia,  while  Heliogabalua 
disgraced  human  nature  at  Rome. 


DISSERTATION 

CONCERNING  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 


THE  history  of  those  nations  who  originally  pus- 
sessed  the  north  of  Europe,  is  less  known  than  their 
manners.  Destitute  of  the  use  of  letters,  they  them, 
selves  had  not  the  means  of  transmitting  their  great 
actions  to  remote  posterity.  Foreign  writers  saw  them 
only  at  a  distance,  and  described  them  as  they  found 
them.  The  vanity  of  the  Romans  induced  them  to 
consider  the  nations  beyond  the  pale  of  their  empire  as 
barbarians  ;  and,  consequently,  their  history  unworthy 
of  being  investigated.  Their  manners  and  singular 
character  were  matters  of  curiosity,  as  they  committed 
them  to  record.  Some  men  otherwise  of  great  merit, 
among  ourselves,  give  into  confined  ideas  on  this  sub- 
ject. Having  early  imbibed  their  idea  of  exalted  man- 
ners from  the  Greek  and  Roman  writers,  they  scarcely 
ever  afterward  have  the  fortitude  to  allow  any  dignity 
of  character  to  any  nation  destitute  of  the  use  of  let- 
ters. 

Without  derogating  from  the  fame  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  we  may  consider  antiquity  beyond  the  pale  of 
their  empire  worthy  of  some  attention.  The  nobler 


58  DISSERTATION  ON 

passions  of  the  mind  nevei  shoot  forth  morv  free  and 
unrestrained  than  in  the  times  we  call  barbarous. 
That  irregular  manner  of  life,  and  those  manly  pursuits, 
from  which  barbarity  takos  it  name,  are  highly  favor- 
able to  a  strength  of  mind  unknown  in  polished  times. 
In  advanced  society,  the  characters  of  men  are  more 
uniform  and  disguised.  The  human  passions  lie  in 
some  degree  concealed  behind  forms  and  artificial  man- 
ners ;  and  the  powers  of  the  soul,  without  an  opportu- 
nity of  exerting  them,  lose  their  vigor.  The  times  of 
regular  government,  and  polished  manners,  are  there- 
fore to  be  wished  for  by  the  feeble  and  weak  in  mind. 
An  unsettled  state,  and  those  convulsions  which  attend 
it,  is  the  proper  field  for  an  exalted  character,  and  the 
exertion  of  great  parts.  Merit  there  rises  always  su- 
perior ;  no  fortuitous  event  can  raise  the  timid  and 
mean  into  power.  To  those  who  look  upon  antiquity 
in  this  light,  it  is  an  agreeable  prospect ;  and  they 
alone  can  have  real  pleasuie  in  tracing  nations  to  their 
source.  The  establishment  of  the  Celtic  states,  in  the 
north  of  Europe,  is  beyond  the  reach  of  written  annals. 
The  traditions  and  songs  to  which  they  trusted  their 
history,  were  lost,  or  altogether  corrupted,  in  their 
revolutions  and  migrations,  which  were  so  frequent  and 
universal,  that  no  kingdom  in  Europe  is  now  possessed 
by  its  original  inhabitants.  Societies  were  formed, 
and  kingdoms  erected,  from  a  mixture  of  nations,  who, 
in  process  of  time,  lost  all  knowledge  of  their  own  ori- 
gin. If  tradition  could  be  depended  upon,  it  is  only 
among  a  people,  from  all  time,  free  from  intermixture 
with  foreigners.  We  are  to  look  for  these  among  the 
mountains  and  inaccessible  parts  of  a  country  :  places, 
on  account  of  their  barrenness,  uninviting  to  an  enemy, 
or  whose  natural  strength  enabled  the  natives  to  repel 
invasions.  Such  are  the  inhabitants  of  the  mountains 
of  Scotland.  We,  accordingly  find  that  they  ditfer 


TILE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  59 

materially  from  those  who  possess  the  low  and  more 
fertile  parts  of  the  kingdom.  Their  language  is  pure 
and  original,  and  their  manners  are  those  of  an  ancient 
and  unmixed  race  of  men.  Conscious  of  their  own 
antiquity,  they  long  despised  others,  as  a  new  and  mix- 
ed people.  As  they  lived  in  a  country  only  fit  for  pas- 
ture, they  were  free  from  that  toil  and  business  which 
engross  the  attention  of  a  commercial  people.  Their 
amusement  consisted  in  hearing  or  repeating  their 
songs  and  traditions,  and  these  entirely  turned  on  the 
antiquity  of  their  nation,  and  the  exploits  of  their  fore- 
fathers. It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  thei-e  are 
more  remains  among  them,  than  among  any  other 
people  in  Europe.  Traditions,  however,  concerning 
remote  periods  are  only  to  be  regarded,  in  so  far  as 
they  coincide  with  contemporary  writers  of  undoubted 
credit  and  veracity. 

No  writers  began  their  accounts  for  a  more  early 
period  than  the  historians  of  the  Scots  nation.  With- 
out records,  or  even  tradition  itself,  they  gave  a  long 
list  of  ancient  kings,  and  a  detail  of  their  transactions, 
with  a  scrupulous  exactness.  One  might  naturally 
suppose,  that  when  they  had  no  authentic  annals,  they 
should,  at  least,  have  recourse  to  the  traditions  of  their 
country,  and  have  reduced  them  into  a  regular  system 
of  history.  Of  both  they  seem  to  have  been  equally 
destitute.  Born  in  the  low  country,  and  strangers  to 
the  ancient  language  of  their  nation,  they  contented 
themselves  with  copying  from  one  another,  and  retail- 
ing the  same  fictions  in  a  new  color  and  dress. 

John  Fordun  was  the  first  who  collected  those  frag- 
ments of  the  Scots  history  which  had  escaped  the  bru- 
tal policy  of  Edward  I.,  and"  reduced  them  into  order. 
His  accounts,  in  so  far  as  they  concerned  recent  trans- 
actions, deserved  credit :  beyond  a  certain  period, 
they  were  fabulous  and  unsatisfactory.  Some  time  be- 


60  DISSERTATION  ON 

fore  Fordun  wrote,  the  king  of  England,  in  a  letter  to 
the  pope,  had  run  up  the  antiquity  of  his  nation  to  a 
very  remote  sera.  Fordun,  possessed  of  all  the  national 
prejudice  of  the  age,  was  unwilling  that  his  country 
should  yield,  in  point  of  antiquity,  to  a  people  then  its 
rivals  and  enemies.  Destitute  of  annals  in  Scotland, 
he  had  recourse  to  Ireland,  which,  according  to  the 
vulgar  error  of  the  times,  was  reckoned  the  first  habi- 
tation of  the  Scots.  He  found  there,  that  the  Irish 
bards  had  carried  their  pretensions  to  antiquity  as  high, 
if  not  beyond  any  nation  in  Europe.  It  was  from 
them  he  took  those  improbable  fictions  which  form  the 
first  part  of  his  history. 

The  writers  that  succeeded  Fordun  implicitly  follow, 
ed  his  system,  though  they  sometimes  varied  from  him 
in  their  relations  of  particular  transactions  and  the  or- 
der of  succession  of  their  kings.  As  they  had  no  new 
lights,  and  were  equally  with  him  unacquainted  with 
the  traditions  of  their  country,  their  histories  contain 
little  information  concerning  the  origin  of  the  Scots. 
Even  Buchanan  himself,  except  the  elegance  and  vigor 
of  his  style,  has  very  little  to  recommend  him.  Blinded 
with  political  prejudices,  he  seemed  more  anxious  to 
turn  the  fictions  of  his  predecessors  to  his  own  purposes, 
than  to  detect  their  misrepresentations,  or  investigate 
truth  amidst  the  darkness  which  they  had  thrown  round 
it.  It  therefore  appears,  that  little  can  be  collected 
from  their  own  historians  concerning  the  first  migra- 
tions of  the  Scots  into  Britain. 

That  this  island  was  peopled  from  Gaul  admits  of  no 
doubt.  Whether  colonies  came  afterward  from  the 
north  of  Europe,  is  a  matter  of  mere  speculation. 
When  South  Britain  yielded  to  the  power  of  the  Ro- 
mans, the  unconquered  nations  to  the  north  of  the 
province  were  distinguished  by  the  name  of  Caledo- 
nians From  their  very  name,  it  appears  that  they 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  61 

Were  of  tnose  Gauls  who  possessed  themselves  origi- 
nally of  Britain.  It  is  compounded  of  two  Celtic 
words,  Gael  signifying  Celts,  or  Gauls,  and  Dun  or 
Don,  a  hill ;  so  that  Caeldon,  or  Caledonians,  is  as 
much  as  to  say,  the  "  Celts  of  the  hill  country."  The 
Highlanders,  to  this  day,  call  themselves  Gael,  and 
their  language  Gaelic,  or  Galic,  and  their  country 
Caeldock,  which  the  Romans  softened  into  Caledonia. 
This,  of  itself,  is  sufficient  to  demonstrate  that  they  are 
the  genuine  descendants  of  the  ancient  Caledonians, 
and  not  a  pretended  colgny  of  Scots,  who  settled  first 
in  the  north,  in  the  third  or  fourth  century. 

From  the  double  meaning  of  the  word  Gael,  which 
signifies  "  strangers,"  as  well  as  Gauls,  or  Celts,  some 
have  imagined,  that  the  ancestors  of  the  Caledonians 
were  of  a  different  race  from  the  rest  of  the  Britons, 
and  that  they  received  their  name  upon  that  account. 
This  opinion,  say  they,  is  supported  by  Tacitus,  who, 
from  several  circumstances,  concludes  that  the  Cale- 
donians were  of  German  extraction.  A  discussion  of 
a  point  so  intricate,  at  this  distance  of  time,  could 
neither  be  satisfactory  nor  important. 

Towards  the  latter  end  of  the  third,  and  beginning 
of  the  fourth  century,  we  find  the  Scots  in  the  north. 
Porphirius  makes  the  first  mention  of  them  about  that 
time.  As  the  Scots  were  not  heard  of  before  that 
period,  most  writers  supposed  them  to  have  been  a 
colony,  newly  come  to  Britain,  and  that  the  Picts  were 
the  only  genuine  descendants  of  the  ancient  Caledoni 
ans.  This  mistake  is  easily  removed.  The  Caledoni- 
ans, in  process  of  time,  became  naturally  divided  into 
two  distinct  nations,  as  possessing  parts  of  the  country 
entirely  different  in  their  nature  and  soil.  The  west- 
ern coast  of  Scotland  is  hilly  and  barren ;  towards  ti.e 
east,  the  country  is  plain,  and  fit  for  tillage.  The  in- 
habitants of  the  mountains,  a  roving  and  uncontrolled 
6 


62  DISSERTATION  OH 

race  of  men,  lived  by  feeding  of  cattle,  and  what  they 
killed  in  hunting.  Their  employment  did  not  fix  them 
to  one  place.  They  removed  from  one  heath  to  ano- 
ther, as  suited  best  with  their  convenience  or  inclina- 
tion. They  were  not,  therefore,  improperly  called;  ly 
their  neighbors,  Scuite,  or  "the  wandering  nation  ;'* 
which  is  evidently  the  origin  of  the  Roman  name  of 
Scoti. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  Caledonians,  who  possessed 
the  east  coast  of  Scotland,  as  this  division  of  the 
country  was  plain  and  fertile,  applied  themselves  to 
agriculture,  and  raising  of  corn.  It  was  from  this 
that  the  Galic  name  of  the  Picts  proceeded ;  for  they 
are  called  in  that  language,  Cruithnich,  i.  e.  "  the  wheat 
or  corn  eaters."  As  the  Picts  lived  in  a  country  so 
different  in  its  nature  from  that  possessed  by  the  Scots 
so  their  national  character  suffered  a  material  change. 
Unobstructed  by  mountains  or  lakes,  their  communica- 
tion with  one  another  was  free  and  frequent.  Society, 
therefore,  became  sooner  established  among  them  than 
among  the  Scots,  and,  consequently,  they  were  much 
sooner  governed  by  civil  magistrates  and  laws.  This, 
at  last,  produced  so  great  a  difference  in  the  manners 
of  the  two  nations,  that  they  began  to  forget  their  com- 
mon origin,  and  almost  continual  quarrels  and  animosi- 
ties subsisted  between  them.  These  animosities,  after 
some  ages,  ended  in  the  subversion  of  the  Pictish  king- 
dom, but  not  in  the  total  extirpation  of  the  nation  ac- 
cording to  most  of  the  Scots  writers,  who  seem  to  think 
it  more  for  the  honor  of  their  countrymen  to  annihilate 
than  reduce  a  rival  people  under  their  obedience.  It  is 
certain,  however,  that  the  very  name  of  the  Picts  was  lost, 
and  that  those  that  remained  were  so  completely  in- 
corporated with  their  conquerors,  that  they  soon  lost 
all  memory  of  their  own  origin. 

The  end  of  the  Pictish  government  is  placed  so  neai 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  63 

that  period  to  which  authentic  annals  reach,  that  it  is 
matter  of  wonder  that  we  have  no  monuments  of  their 
language  or  history  remaining.  This  favors  the  sys- 
tem I  have  laid  down.  •  Had  they  originally  been  of  a 
different  race  from  the  Scots,  their  language  of  course 
would  be  different.  The  contrary  is  the  case.  The 
names  of  places  in  the  Pictish  dominions,  and  the  very 
names  of  their  kings,  which  are  handed  down  to  us, 
are  of  Galic  original,  which  is  a  convincing  proof  that 
the  two  nations  were,  of  old,  one  and  the  same,  an^ 
only  divided  into  two  governments  by  the  effect  which 
their  situation  had  upon  the  genius  of  the  people. 

The  name  of  Picts  is  said  to  have  been  given  by  the 
Romans  to  the  Caledonians  who  possessed  the  east 
coast  of  Scotland  from  their  painting  their  bodies. 
The  story  is  silly,  and  the  argument  absurd.  But  let 
us  revere  antiquity  in  her  very  follies.  This  circum- 
stance made  some  imagine,  that  the  Picts  were  of  Brit- 
ish extract,  and  a  different  race  of  men  from  the  Scots. 
That  more  of  the  Britons,  who  fled  northward  from  the 
tyranny  of  the  Romans,  settled  in  the  low  country  of 
Scotland,  than  among  the  Scots  of  the  mountains,  may 
be  easily  imagined,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  coun- 
try. It  was  they  who  introduced  painting  among  the 
Picts.  From  this  circumstance,  affirm  some  antiqua- 
ries, proceeded  the  name  of  the  latter,  to  distinguish 
them  from  the  Scots,  who  never  had  that  art  among 
them,  and  from  the  Britons,  who  discontinued  it  after 
the  Roman  conquest. 

The  Caledonians,  most  certainly,  acquired  a  consider- 
able knowledge  in  navigation  by  their  living  on  a 
coast  intersected  with  many  arms  of  the  sea,  and  in 
islands,  divided  one  from  another  by  wide  and  danger- 
ous firths.  It  is,  therefore,  highly  probable,  that  they 
very  early  found  their  way  to  the  north  of  Ireland, 
which  is  within  sight  of  their  own  country.  That  Ire. 


64  DISSERTATION  ON 

land  was  first  peopled  from  Britain,  is,  at  length,  a  mat- 
ter  that  admits  of  no  doubt.  The  vicinity  of  the  two 
islands ;  the  exact  correspondence  of  the  ancient  in- 
habitants  of  both,  in  point  of  manners  and  language, 
are  sufficient  proofs,  even  if  we  had  not  the  testimonies 
of  authors  of  undoubted  veracity  to  confirm  it.  The 
abettors  of  the  most  romantic  systems  of  Irish  antiqui- 
ties allow  it ;  but  they  place  the  colony  from  Britain  in 
an  improbable  and  remote  sera.  I  shall  easily  admit 
that  the  colony  of  the  Firbolg,  confessedly  the  Belgae 
ot  Britain,  settled  in  the  south  of  Ireland,  before  the 
Gael,  or  Caledonians  discovered  the  north  ;  but  it  is 
not  at  all  likely  that  the  migration  of  the  Firbolg  to 
Ireland  happened  many  centuries  before  the  Christian 
aera. 

The  poem  of  Temora  throws  considerable  light  on 
this  subject.  The  accounts  given  in  it  agree  so  well  with 
what  the  ancients  have  delivered  concerning  the  first 
population  and  inhabitants  of  Ireland,  that  every  unbi- 
ased person  will  confess  them  more  probable  than  the 
legends  handed  down,  by  tradition,  in  that  countiy.  It 
appears  that,  in  the  days  of  Trathal,  grandfather  to  Fin- 
gal,  Ireland  was  possessed  by  two  nations  ;  the  Firbolg 
or  Belgae  of  Britain,  who  inhabited  the  south,  and  the 
Gael,  who  passed  over  from  Caledonia  and  the  Hebri- 
des to  Ulster.  The  two  nations,  as  is  usual  among  an 
unpolished  and  lately  settled  people,  were  divided  into 
small  dynasties,  subject  to  petty  kings  or  chiefs,  inde- 
pendent of  one  another.  In  this  situation,  it  is  proba- 
ble, they  continued  long,  without  any  material  revolu- 
tion in  the  state  of  the  island,  until  Crothar,  lord  of 
Atha,  a  country  in  Connaught,  the  most  potent  chief 
of  the  Firbolg,  carried  away  Conlama,  the  daughter 
of  Cathmin,  a  chief  of  the  Gael,  who  possessed  Ulster. 

Conlama  had  been  betrothed,  some  time  before,  to 
Turloch,  a  chief  of  their  own  nation.  Turloch  re- 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  65 

sented  the  affront  offered  him  by  Crothar,  made  an  ir- 
ruption into  Connaught,  and  killed  Cormul,  the  brother 
of  Crothar,  who  came  to  oppose  his  progress.  Crothar 
himself  then  took  arms,  and  either  killed  or  expelled 
Turloch.  The  war,  upon  this,  became  general  between 
the  two  nations,  and  the  Gael  were  reduced  to  the  last 
extremity.  In  this  situation,  they  applied  for  aid  to 
Trathal,  king  of  Morven,  who  sent  his  brother  Conar, 
already  famous  for  his  great  exploits,  to  their  relief. 
Conar,  upon  his  arrival  in  Ulster,  was  chosen  king  by 
the  unanimous  consent  of  the  Caledonian  tribes  who 
possessed  that  country.  The  war  was  renewed  with 
vigor  and  success ;  but  the  Firbolg  appear  to  have 
been  rather  repelled  than  subdued.  In  succeeding 
reigns,  we  learn,  from  episodes  in  the  same  poem,  that 
the  chiefs  of  Atha  made  several  efforts  to  become 
monarchs  of  Ireland,  and  to  expel  the  race  of  Conar. 

To  Conar  succeeded  his  son  Cormac,  who  appears 
to  have  reigned  long.  In  his  latter  days  he  seems  to 
have  been  driven  to  the  last  extremity  by  an  insurrec- 
tion of  the  Firbolg,  who  supported  the  pretensions  of 
the  chiefs  of  Atha  to  the  Irish  throne.  Fingal,  who 
was  then  very  young,  came  to  the  aid  of  Cormac, 
totally  defeated  Colculla,  chief  of  Atha,  and  re-estab- 
lished Cormac  in  the  sole  possession  of  all  Ireland.  It 
was  then  he  fell  in  love  with,  and  took  to  wife,  Ros- 
crana,  the  daughter  of  Cormac,  who  was  the  mother 
of  Ossian. 

Cormac  was  succeeded  in  the  Irish  throne  by  his 
son  Cairbre  ;  Cairbre  by  Artho,  his  son,  who  was  the 
father  of  that  Cormac,  in  whose  minority  the  invasion 
of  Swaran  happened,  which  is  the  subject  of  the  poem 
of  Fingal.  The  family  of  Atha,  who  had  not  relin- 
quished their  pretensions  to  the  Irish  throne,  rebelled  in 
the  minority  of  Cormac,  defeated  his  adherents,  and 
murdered  him  in  the  palace  of  Teraora.  Cairbar,  lord 
6* 


66  DISSERTATION  ON 

of  Atha,  upon  this  mounted  the  throno.  His  usurpa- 
tion soon  ended  with  his  life ;  for  Fingal  made  an  ex- 
pedition into  Ireland,  and  restored,  after  various  vicis- 
situdes of  fortune,  the  family  of  Conar  to  the  possession 
of  the  kingdom.  This  war  is  the  subject  of  Temora  ; 
the  events,  though  certainly  heightened  and  embellished 
by  poetry,  seem,  notwithstanding,  to  have  their  founda- 
tion in  true  history. 

Temora  contains  not  only  the  history  of  the  first  mi- 
gration of  the  Caledonians  into  Ireland ;  it  also  pre- 
serves some  important  facts  concerning  the  first  settle- 
ment of  the  Firbolg,  or  Belgse  of  Britain,  in  that  king- 
dom, under  their  leader  Larthon,  who  was  ancestor  to 
Cairbar  and  Cathmor,  who  successively  mounted  the 
Ii-ish  throne,  after  the  death  of  Cormac,  the  son  of 
Artho.  I  forbear  to  transcribe  the  passage  on  account 
of  its  length.  It  is  the  song  of  Fonar,  the  bard;  to- 
wards the  latter  end  of  the  seventh  book  of  Temora. 
As  the  generations  from  Larthon  to  Cathmor,  to  whom 
the  episode  is  addressed,  are  not  marked,  as  are  those 
of  the  family  of  Conar,  the  first  king  of  Ireland,  we 
can  form  no  judgment  of  the  time  of  the  settlement  of 
the  Firbolg.  It  is,  however,  probable  it  was  some 
time  before  the  Gael,  or  Caledonians,  settled  in  Ulster. 
One  important  fact  may  be  gathered  from  this  history, 
that  the  Irish  had  no  king  before  the  latter  end  of  the 
first  century.  Fingal  lived,  it  is  supposed,  in  the  third 
century ;  so  Conar,  the  first  monarch  of  the  Irish,  who 
was  his  grand-uncle,  cannot  be  placed  farther  back  than 
the  close  of  the  first.  To  establish  this  fact,  is  to 
lay,  at  once,  aside  the  pretended  antiquities  of  the 
Scots  and  Irish,  and  to  get  quit  of  the  long  list  of  kings 
which  the  latter  give  us  for  a  millenium  before. 

Of  the  affairs  of  Scotland,  it  is  certain,  nothing  can 
be  depended  upon  prior  to  the  reign  of  Fergus,  the  son 
of  Ere,  who  lived  in  the  fifth  century.  The  true  his- 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  67 

tory  of  Ireland  begins  somewhat  later  than  that  period. 
Sir  James  Ware,  who  was  indefatigable  in  his  re- 
searches after  the  antiquities  of  his  country,  rejects,  as 
mere  fiction  and  idle  romance,  all  that  is  related  of  the 
ancient  Irish  before  the  time  of  St.  Patrick,  and  the 
reign  of  Leogaire.  It  is  from  this  consideration  that 
he  begins  his  history  at  the  introduction  of  Christianity, 
remarking,  that  all  that  is  delivered  down  concerning 
the  times  of  paganism  were  tales  of  late  invention, 
strangely  mixed  with  anachronisms  and  inconsistencies. 
Such  being  the  opinion  of  Ware,  who  had  collected, 
with  uncommon  industry  and  zeal,  all  the  real  and  pre- 
tendedly  ancient  manuscripts  concerning  the  history  of 
his  country,  we  may,  on  his  authority,  reject  the  im- 
probable and  self-condemned  tales  of  Keating  and 
O'Flaherty.  Credulous  and  puerile  to  the  last  degree, 
they  have  disgraced  the  antiquities  they  meant  to 
establish.  It  is  to  be  wished  that  some  able  Irish- 
man, who  understands  the  language  and  records  of  his 
country,  may  redeem,  ere  too  late,  the  genuine  anti- 
quities of  Ireland  from  the  hands  of  these  idle  fabulists. 

By  comparing  the  history  in  these  poems  with  the 
legends  of  the  Scots  and  Irish  writers,  and  by  after- 
ward examining  both  by  the  test  of  the  Roman  authors, 
it  is  easy  to  discover  which  is  the  most  probable. 
Probability  is  all  that  can  be  established  on  the  author- 
ity of  tradition,  ever  dubious  and  uncertain.  But  when 
it  favors  the  hypothesis  laid  down  by  contemporary 
writers  of  undoubted  veracity,  and,  as  it  were,  finishes 
the  figure  of  which  they  only  drew  the  outlines,  it 
ought,  in  the  judgment  of  sober  reason,  to  be  preferred 
to  accounts  framed  in  dark  and  distant  periods,  with 
.ittle  judgment,  and  upon  no  authority. 

Concerning  the  period  of  more  than  a  century  which 
intervenes  between  Fingal  and  the  reign  of  Fergus,  the 
son  of  Ere  or  Arcath,  tradition  is  dark  r»nd  contiadic- 


68  DISSERTATION  OX 

tor}'.  Some  trace  up  the  family  of  Fergus  to  a  son  of 
Fingal  of  that  name,  who  makes  a  considerable  figure 
in  Ossian's  Poems.  The  three  elder  sons  of  Fingal, 
Ossian,  Fillan,  and  Ryno,  dying  without  issue,  the  suc- 
cession, of  course,  devolved  upon  Fergus,  the  fourth 
son,  and  his  posterity.  This  Fergus,  say  some  tradi- 
tions, was  the  father  of  Congal,  whose  son  was  Arcath, 
the  father  of  Fergus,  properly  called  the  first  king  of 
Scots,  as  it  was  in  his  time  the  Gael,  who  possessed  the 
western  coast  of  Scotland,  began  to  be  distinguished  by 
foreigners  by  the  name  of  Scots.  From  thencefor- 
ward, the  Scots  and  Picts,  as  distinct  nations,  became 
objects  of  attention  to  the  historians  of  other  countries. 
The  internal  state  of  the  two  Caledonian  kingdoms  has 
always  continued,  and  ever  must  remain,  hi  obscurity 
and  fable. 

It  is  in  this  epoch  we  must  fix  the  beginning  of  the 
decay  of  that  species  of  heroism  which  subsisted  in  the 
days  of  Fingal.  There  are  three  stages  in  human  so- 
ciety. The  first  is  the  result  of  consanguinity,  and 
the  natural  affection  of  the  members  of  a  family  to  one 
another.  The  second  begins  when  property  is  estab- 
lished, and  men  enter  into  associations  for  mutual  de- 
fence, against  the  invasions  and  injustice  of  neighbors. 
Mankind  submit,  in  the  third,  to  certain  laws  and  sub- 
ordinations of  government,  to  which  they  trust  the 
safety  of  their  persons  and  property.  As  the  first  is 
formed  on  nature,  so,  of  course,  it  is  the  most  disinter- 
ested and  noble.  Men,  in  the  last,  have  leisure  to  cul- 
tivate the  mind,  and  to  restore  it,  with  reflection,  to  a 
primeval  dignity  of  sentiment.  The  middle  state  is 
the  region  of  complete  barbarism  and  ignorance. 
About  the  beginning  of  the  fifth  century,  the  Scots  and 
Picts  were  advanced  into  the  second  stage,  and  conse- 
quently, into  those  circumscribed  sentiments  which 
always  distinguish  barbarity.  The  events  which  soon 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  69 

after  happened  did  not  at  all  contribute  to  enlarge  their 
ideas,  or  mend  their  national  character. 

About  the  year  426,  the  Romans,  on  account  of  do- 
mestic commotions,  entirely  forsook  Britain,  finding  it 
impossible  to  defend  so  distant  a  frontier.  The  Picts 
and  Scots,  seizing  this  favorable  opportunity,  made  in 
cursions  into  the  deserted  province.  The  Britons, 
enervated  by  the  slavery  of  several  centuries,  and 
those  vices  which  are  inseparable  from  an  advanced 
state  of  civility,  were  not  able  to  withstand  the  impetu- 
ous, though  irregular,  attacks  of  a  barbarous  enemy. 
In  the  utmost  distress,  they  applied  to  their  old  masters, 
the  Romans,  and  (after  the  unfortunate  state  of  the 
empire  could  not  spare  aid)  to  the  Saxons,  a  nation 
equally  barbarous  and  brave  with  the  enemies  of  whom 
they  were  so  much  afraid.  Though  the  bravery  of 
the  Saxons  repelled  the  Caledonian  nations  for  a  time, 
yet  the  latter  found  means  to  extend  themselves  con- 
siderably towards  the  south.  It  is  in  this  period  we 
must  place  the  origin  of  the  arts  of  civil  life  among 
the  Scots.  The  seat  of  governmnnt  was  removed 
from  the  mountains  to  the  plain  and  more  fertile  prov- 
inces of  the  south,  to  be  near  the  common  enemy  in 
case  of  sudden  incursions.  Instead  of  roving  through 
unfrequented  wilds  in  search,  of  subsistence  by  means 
of  hunting,  men  applied  to  agriculture,  and  raising  of 
corn.  This  manner  of  life  was  the  first  means  of 
changing  the  national  character.  -The  next  thing 
which  contributed  to  it  was  their  mixture  with  stran- 
gers. 

In  the  countries  which  the  Scots  had  conquered  from 
the  Britons,  it  is  probable  that  most  of  the  ol  1  inhabit- 
ants remained.  These  incorporating  with  the  con- 
querors, taught  them  agriculture  and  other  arts  which 
they  themselves  had  received  from  the  Romans.  The 
Scots,  however,  in  number  as  well  as  power,  being  the 


70  DISSERTATION  ON 

most  predominant,  retained  still  their  language,  and  as 
many  of  the  customs  of  their  ancestors  as  suited  with 
the  nature  of  the  country  they  possessed.  Even  the 
union  of  the  two  Caledonian  kingdoms  did  not  much 
affect  the  national  character.  Being  originally  de- 
scended from  the  same  stock,  the  manners  of  the  Picts 
and  Scots  were  as  similar  as  the  different  natures  of 
the  countries  they  possessed  permitted. 

What  brought  about  a  total  change  in  the  genius  of 
the  Scots  nation  was  their  wars  and  other  transactions 
with  the  Saxons.  Several  counties  in  the  south  of 
Scotland  were  alternately  possessed  by  the  two  nations. 
They  were  ceded,  in  the  ninth  age,  to  the  Scots,  and 
it  is  probable  that  most  of  the  Saxon  inhabitants  re- 
mained in  possession  of  their  lands.  During  the 
several  conquests  and  revolutions  in  England,  many 
fled  for  refuge  into  Scotland,  to  avoid  the  oppression 
of  foreigners,  or  the  tyranny  of  domestic  usurpers ; 
insomuch,  that  the  Saxon  race  formed,  perhaps,  near 
one  half  of  the  Scottish  kingdom.  The  Saxon  man- 
ners and  language  daily  gained  ground  on  the  tongue 
and  customs  of  the  ancient  Caledonians,  till,  at  last,  the 
latter  were  entirely  relegated  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
mountains,  who  were  still  unmixed  with  strangers. 

It  was  after  the  accession  of  territory  which  the 
Scots  received  upon  tne  retreat  of  the  Romans  from 
Britain,  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  Highlands  were 
divided  into  clans.  The  king,  when  he  kept  his  court 
in  the  mountains,  was  considered  by  the  whole  nation 
as  the  chief  of  their  blood.  The  small  number,  as 
well  as  the  presence  of  their  prince,  prevented  thoso 
divisions  which,  afterward,  sprung  forth  into  so  many 
separate  tribes.  When  the  seat  of  goverment  was  re- 
moved to  the  south,  those  who  remained  in  the  High- 
lands were,  of  course,  neglected.  They  naturally 
formed  themselves  into  small  societies  independent  of 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  71 

one  another.  Each  society  had  its  own  regulus,  who 
either  was,  or,  in  the  succession  of  a  few  generations, 
was  regarded  as  chief  of  their  blood.  The  nature  of 
the  country  favored  an  institution  of  this  sort.  A  few 
val.eys,  divided  from  one  another  by  extensive  heaths 
and  impassable  mountains,  form  the  face  of  the  High- 
lands. In  those  valleys  the  chiefs  fixed  their  residence. 
Round  them,  and  almost  within  sight  of  their  dwellings, 
were  the  habitations  of  their  relations  and  dependants. 

The  seats  of  the  Highland  chiefs  were  neither  disa- 
greeable nor  inconvenient.  Surrounded  with  moun- 
tains and  hanging  woods,  they  were  covered  from  the 
inclemency  of  the  weather.  Near  them  generally  ran 
a  pretty  large  river,  which,  discharging  itself  not  far 
off  into  an  arm  of  the  sea  or  extensive  lake,  swarmed 
with  variety  of  fish.  The  woods  were  stocked  with 
wild-fowl ;  and  the  heaths  and  mountains  behind  them 
were  the  natural  seat  of  the  red-deer  and  roe.  If  we 
make  allowance  for  the  backward  state  of  agriculture, 
the  valleys  were  not  unfertile ;  affording,  if  not  all  the 
conveniences,  at  least  the  necessaries  of  life.  Here  the 
chief  lived,  the  supreme  judge  and  lawgiver  of  his  own 
people  ;  but  his  sway  was  neither  severe  nor  unjust. 
As  the  populace  regarded  him  as  the  chief  of  their 
blood,  so  he,  in  return,  considered  them  as  members  of 
his  family.  His  commands,  therefore,  though  absolute 
and  decisive,  partook  more  of  the  authority  of  a  father 
than  of  the  rigor  of  a  judge.  Though  the  whole  terri- 
tory of  the  tribe  was  considered  as  the  property  of  the 
chief,  yet  his  vassals  made  him  no  other  consideration 
for  their  lands  than  services,  neither  burdensome  nor 
frequent.  As  he  seldom  went  from  home,  he  was  at  no 
expense.  His  table  was  supplied  by  his  own  herds 
and  what  his  numerous  attendants  killed  in  hunting. 

In  this  rural  kind  of  magnificence  the  Highland 
chiefs  lived  for  many  ages.  At  a  distance  from  tlio 


72  DISSERTATION  ON 

seat  of  government,  and  secured  by  the  inaccessiblenesa 
of  their  country,  they  were  free  and  independent.  As 
they  had  little  communication  with  strangers,  the  cus- 
toms of  their  ancestors  remained  among  them,  and 
their  language  retained  its  original  purity.  Naturally 
fond  of  military  fame,  and  remarkably  attached  to  the 
memory  of  their  ancestors,  they  delighted  in  traditions 
and  songs  concerning  the  exploits  of  their  nation,  and 
especially  of  their  own  particular  families.  A  succes- 
sion of  bards  was  retained  in  every  clan  to  hand  down 
the  memorable  actions  of  their  forefathers.  As  Fin- 
gal  and  his  chiefs  were  the  most  renowned  names  in 
tradition,  the  bards  took  care  to  place  them  in  the 
genealogy  of  every  great  family.  They  became  fa- 
mous among  the  people,  and  an  object  of  fiction  and 
poetry  to  the  bard. 

The  bards  erected  their  immediate  patrons  into  he- 
roes  and  celebrated  them  in  their  songs.  As  the  circle 
of  their  knowledge  was  narrow,  their  ideas  were  con- 
fined in  proportion.  A  few  happy  expressions,  and 
the  manners  they  represent,  may  please  those  who  un- 
derstand the  language  ;  their  obscurity  and  inaccuracy 
would  disgust  in  a  translation.  It  was  chiefly  for  this 
reason  that  I  have  rejected  wholly  the  works  of  the 
bards  in  my  publications.  Ossian  acted  in  a  more  ex- 
tensive sphere,  and  his  ideas  ought  to  be  more  noble 
and  universal ;  neither  gives  he,  I  presume,  so  many 
of  their  peculiarities,  which  are  only  understood  in  a 
certain  period  or  country.  The  other  bards  have  their 
beauties,  but  not  in  this  species  of  composition.  Their 
rhymes,  only  calculated  to  kindle  a  martial  spirit 
among  the  vulgar,  afford  very  little  pleasure  to  genuine 
taste.  This  observation  only  regards  their  poems  of 
the  heroic  kind ;  in  every  inferior  species  of  poetry 
they  are  more  successful.  They  express  the  tender 
melancholy  of  desponding  love  with  simplicity  and  na- 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN  73 

ture.  So  well  adapted  are  the  sounds  of  the  words  to 
the  sentiments,  that,  even  without  any  knowlege  of  the 
language,  they  pierce  and  dissolve  the  heart.  Success- 
ful love  is  expressed  with  peculiar  tenderness  and  ele- 
gance. In  all  their  compositions,  except  the  heroic* 
which  was  solely  calculated  to  animate  the  vulgar,  they 
gave  us  the  genuine  language  of  the  heart,  without  any 
of  those  affected  ornaments  of  phraseology,  which, 
though  intended  to  beautify  sentiments,  divest  them  of 
their  natural  force.  The  ideas,  it  is  confessed,  are  too 
local  to  be  admired  in  another  language  ;  to  those  who 
are  acquainted  with  the  manners  they  represent,  and 
the  scenes  they  describe,  they  must  afford  pleasure  and 
satisfaction. 

It  was  the  locality  of  their  description  and  sentiment 
that,  probably,  has  kept  them  in  the  obscurity  of  an  al- 
most lost  language.  The  ideas  of  an  unpolished  period 
are  so  contrary  to  the  present  advanced  state  of  society, 
that  more  than  a  common  mediocrity  of  taste  is  required 
to  relish  them  as  they  deserve.  Those  who  alone  are 
capable  of  transferring  ancient  poetry  into  a  modern 
language,  might  be  better  employed  in  giving  originals 
of  their  own,  were  it  not  for  that  wretched  envy  and 
meanness  which  affects  to  despise  contemporary  genius. 
My  first  publication  was  merely  accidental ;  had  I  then 
met  with  less  approbation  my  after  pursuits  would  have 
been  more  profitable  ;  at  least,  I  might  have  continued 
to  be  stupid  without  being  branded  with  dulness. 

These  poems  may  furnish  light  to  antiquaries,  as 
well  as  some  pleasure  to  the  lovers  of  poetry.  Tho 
first  population  of  Ireland,  its  first  kings,  and  several 
circumstances,  which  regard  its  connection  of  old  wi<la 
the  south  and  north  of  Britain,  are  presented  in  several 
episodes.  The  subject  and  catastrophe  of  the  poern 
are  founded  upon  facts  which  regarded  the  first  peopling 
of  that  country,  and  the  contests  between  the  two 
7 


74  DISSERTATION  ON 

British  nations,  who  originally  inhabited  that  island. 
In  a  preceding  part  of  this  dissertation  I  have  shown 
how  superior  the  probability  of  this  system  is  to  the 
undigested  fictions  of  the  Irish  bards,  and  the  more  re- 
cent and  regular  legends  of  both  Irish  and  Scottish 
historians.  I  mean  not  to  give  offence  to  the  abettors 
of  the  high  antiquities  of  the  two  nations,  though  I 
have  all  along  expressed  my  doubts  concerning  the 
veracity  and  abilities  of  those  who  deliver  down  their 
ancient  history.  For  my  own  part,  I  prefer  the  na- 
tional fame  arising  from  a  few  certain  facts,  to  the 
legendary  and  uncertain  annals  of  ages  of  remote  and 
obscure  antiquity.  No  kingdom  now  established  in 
Europe  can  pretend  to  equal  antiquity  with  that  of  the 
Scots,  inconsiderable  as  it  may  appear  in  other  respects, 
even  according  to  my  system  ;  so  that  it  is  altogether 
needless  to  fix  its  origin  a  fictitious  millenium  before. 

Since  the  first  publication  of  these  poems,  many  in- 
sinuations have  been  made,  and  doubts  arisen,  concern- 
ing their  authenticity.  Whether  these  suspicions  are 
suggested  by  prejudice,  or  are  only  the  effects  of 
malice,  I  neither  know  nor  care.  Those  who  have 
doubted  my  veracity  have  paid  a  compliment  to  my 
genius ;  and  were  even  the  allegation  time,  my  self- 
denial  might  have  atoned  for  my  fault.  Without 
vanity  I  say  it,  I  think  I  could  write  tolerable  poetry  ; 
and  I  assure  my  antagonists,  that  I  should  not  translate 
what  I  could  not  imitate. 

As  prejudice  is  the  effect  of  ignorance,  I  am  not 
surprised  at  its  being  general.  An  age  that  produces 
few  marks  of  genius  ought  to  be  sparing  of  admiration. 
The  truth  is,  the  bulk  of  mankind  have  ever  been  led 
by  reputation  more  than  taste,  in  articles  of  literature. 
If  all  the  Romans  who  admired  Virgil  understood  his 
beauties,  he  would  have  scarce  deserved  to  have  come 
down  to  us  through  so  many  centuries.  Unless  genius 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN,  75 

were  in  fashion,  Homer  himself  might  have  written  in 
vain.  He  that  wishes  to  come  with  weight  on  the  su- 
perficial, must  skim  the  surface,  in  their  own  shallow 
way.  Were  my  aim  to  gain  the  many,  I  would  write 
a  madrigal  sooner  than  an  heroic  poem.  Laberiua 
himself  would  be  always  sure  of  more  followers  than 
Sophocles. 

Some  who  doubt  the  authenticity  of  this  work,  with 
peculiar  acuteness  appropriate  them  to  the  Irish  nation. 
Though  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive  how  these  poems  can 
belong  to  Ireland  and  to  me  at  once,  I  shall  examine 
the  subject  without  farther  animadversion  on  the  blun- 
der. 

Of  all  the  nations  descended  from  the  ancient  Cel- 
ise,  the  Scots  and  Irish  are  the  most  similar  in  language, 
customs,  and  manners.  This  argues  a  more  intimate 
connection  between  them  than  a  remote  descent  from 
the  great  Celtic  stock.  It  is  evident,  in  short,  that,  at 
dome  period  or  other,  they  formed  one  society,  were 
subject  to  the  same  government,  and  were,  in  all  re- 
epects,  one  and  the  same  people.  How  they  became 
divided,  which  the  colony,  or  which  the  mother-nation, 
i  have  in  another  work  amply  discussed.  The  first 
circumstance  that  induced  me  to  disregard  the  vulgarly- 
received  opinion  of  the  Hibernian  extraction  of  the 
Scottish  nation  was  my  observations  on  their  ancient 
language.  The  dialect  of  the  Celtic  tongue,  spoken 
in  the  north  of  Scotland,  is  much  more  pure,  more 
agreeable  to  its  mother-language,  and  more  abounding 
with  primitives,  than  that  now  spoken,  or  even  that 
which  has  been  written  for  some  centuries  back, 
amongst  the  most  unmixed  part  of  the  Irish  nation. 
A.  Scotchman,  tolerably  conversant  in  his  own  lan- 
guage, understands  an  Irish  composition  from  that  de- 
rivative analogy  which  it  has  to  the  Gaelic  of  North 
Britain.  An  Irishman,  on  the  other  hand,  without  the 


TO  DISSERTATION  ON 

aid  of  study,  can  never  understand  a  composition  in  the 
Gaelic  tongue.  This  affords  a  proof  that  the  Scotch 
Gaelic  is  the  most  original,  and,  consequently,  the  Ian- 
guage  of  a  more  ancient  and  unmixed  people.  The 
Irish,  however  backward  they  may  be  to  allow  any  thing 
to  the  prejudice  of  their  antiquity,  seem  inadvertently 
to  acknowledge  it,  by  the  very  appellation  they  give  to 
the  dialect  they  speak.  They  call  their  own  language 
Gaelic  Eirinarch,  i.  e.  Caledonian  Irish,  when,  on  the 
contrary,  they  call  the  dialect  of  North  Britain  a 
Chaelic,  or  the  Caledonian  tongue,  emphatically.  A 
circumstance  of  this  nature  tends  more  to  decide  which 
is  the  most  ancient  nation  than  the  united  testimonies 
of  a  whole  legion  of  ignorant  bards  and  senachies,  who, 
perhaps,  never  dreamed  of  bringing  the  Scots  from 
Spain  to  Ireland,  till  some  one  of  them,  more  learned 
than  the  rest,  discovered  that  the  Romans  called  the 
first  Iberia,  and  the  latter  Hibernia.  On  such  a  sliglit 
foundation  were  probably  built  the  romantic  fictions 
concerning  the  Milesians  of  Ireland. 

From  internal  proofs  it  sufficiently  appears  that  the 
poems  published  under  the  name  of  Ossian  are  not  of 
Irish  composition.  The  favorite  chimera,  that  Ireland 
is  the  mother-country  of  the  Scots,  is  totally  subverted 
and  ruined.  The  fictions  concerning  the  antiquities  of 
that  country,  which  were  formed  for  ages,  and  growing 
as  they  came  down  on  the  hands  of  successive  sena- 
chies and  fileas,  are  found,  at  last,  to  be  the  spurious 
brood  of  modern  and  ignorant  ages.  To  those  who 
know  how  tenacious  the  Irish  are  of  their  pretended 
Iberian  descent,  this  alone  is  proof  sufficient,  that 
poems,  so  subversive  of  their  system,  could  never  be 
produced  by  an  Hibernian  bard.  But  when  we  look 
to  the  language,  it  is  so  different  from  the  Irish  dialect, 
that  it  would  be  as  ridiculous  to  think  that  Milton's 
Paradise  Lost  could  be  wrote  by  a  Scottish  peasant,  as 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAM.  77 

to  suppose  that  the  poems  ascribed  to  Ossian  were  writ 
in  Ireland. 

The  pretensions  of  Ireland  to  Ossian  proceed  from 
another  quarter.  There  are  handed  down  in  that 
country  traditional  poems  concerning  the  Fiona,  or  the 
heroes  of  Fion  Mac  Comnal.  This  Fion,  say  the  Irish 
annalists,  was  general  of  the  militia  of  Ireland  in  the 
reign  of  Cor  mac,  in  the  third  century.  Where  Keat- 
ing and  OFlaherty  learned  that  Ireland  had  an  embo- 
died militia  so  eaily,  is  not  so  easy  for  me  to  determine. 
Their  information  certainly  did  not  come  from  the 
Irish  poems  concerning  Fion.  I  have  just  now  in  my 
hands  all  that  remain  of  those  compositions ;  but,  un- 
luckily for  the  antiquities  of  Ireland,  they  appear  to  be 
the  work  of  a  very  modern  period.  Every  slanza, 
nay,  almost  every  line,  affords  striking  proofs  that  they 
cannot  be  three  centuries  old.  Their  allusions  to  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  fifteenth  century  are  so 
many,  that  it  is  a  matter  of  wonder  to  me  how  any  one 
could  dream  of  their  antiquity.  They  are  entirely 
writ  in  that  romantic  taste  which  prevailed  two  ages 
ago.  Giants,  enchanted  castles,  dwarfs,  palfreys, 
witches,  and  magicians,  form  the  whole  circle  of  the 
poet's  invention.  The  celebrated  Fion  could  scarcely 
move  from  one  hillock  to  another  without  encountering 
a  giant,  or  being  entangled  in  the  circles  of  a  magician. 
Witches,  on  broomsticks,  were  continually  hovering 
round  him  like  crows  ;  and  he  had  freed  enchanted 
virgins  in  every  valley  in  Ireland.  In  short,  Fion, 
great  as  he  was,  passed  a  disagreeable  life.  Not  only 
had  he  to  engage  all  the  mischiefs  in  his  own  country, 
foreign  armies  invaded  him,  assisted  by  magicians  and 
witches,  and  headed  by  kings  as  tall  as  the  mainmast 
of  a  first-rate.  It  must  be  owned,  however,  that  Fion 
was  not  inferior  to  them  in  height. 
7* 


^8  DISSERTATION  OH 

A  chos  air  Cro.nleach,  drnim-ard, 
Chos  eile  air  Crora-meal  dubh, 
Thoga  Fion  le  lamb  mhoir 
An  d'uisge  o  Lubhair  na  iruth. 

"With  oae  foot  on  Cromleach  his  brow, 
The  other  on  Grommal  the  dark, 
Fion  took  up  with  his  large  hand 
The  water  from  Lubar  ofthe  streams. 

Cromleach  and  Crommal  were  two  mountains  in  the 
neighborhood  of  one  another,  in  Ulster,  and  the  rivei 
of  Lubar  ran  through  the  intermediate  valley.  The 
property  of  such  a  monster  as  this  Fion  I  should  never 
have  disputed  with  any  nation ;  but  the  bard  himself, 
in  the  poem  from  which  the  above  quotation  is  taken, 
cedes  him  to  Scotland  : 

Fion  o  Albin,  siol  nan  laoich ! 
Fion  from  Albion,  race  of  heroes ! 

Were  it  allowable  to  contradict  the  authority  of  a  bard, 
at  this  distance  of  time,  I  should  have  given  as  my 
opinion,  that  this  enormous  Fion  was  of  the  race  of  the 
Hibernian  giants,  of  Ruanus,  or  some  other  celebrated 
name,  rather  than  a  native  of  Caledonia,  whose  inhab- 
itants, now  at  least,  are  not  remarkable  for  their  sta- 
ture. As  for  the  poetry,  I  leave  it  to  the  reader. 

If  Fion  was  so  remarkable  for  his  stature,  his  heroes 
had  also  other  extraordinary  properties.  "  In  weight 
all  the  sons  of  strangers  yielded  to  the  celebrated  Ton- 
iosal ;  and  for  hardness  of  skull,  and,  perhaps,  for 
thickness  too,  the  valiant  Oscar  stood  '  unrivalled  ana 
alone.'  "  Ossian  himself  had  many  singular  and  less 
delicate  qualifications  than  playing  on  the  harp ;  and 
the  brave  Cuthullin  was  of  so  diminutive  a  size,  as  to 
be  taken  for  a  child  of  two  years  of  age  by  the  gigantic 
Swaran.  To  illustrate  this  subject,  I  shall  here  lay 
before  the  reader  the  history  of  some  of  the  Irish  poems 
concerning  Fion  Mac  Comnal.  A  translation  of  tnese 
pieces,  if  well  executed,  might  afford  satisfaction,  'in  an 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN. 


79 


uncommon  way,  to  the  public.  But  this  ought  to  be 
the  work  of  a  native  of  Ireland.  To  draw  forth  from 
obscurity  the  poems  of  my  own  country  has  wasted  all 
the  time  I  had  allotted  for  the  Muses ;  besides,  I  am 
too  diffident  of  my  own  abilities  to  undertake  such  a 
work.  A  gentleman  in  Dublin  accused  me  '<x>  the  pub- 
lie  of  committing  blunders  and  absurdities  in  transla- 
ting the  language  of  my  own  country,  and  that  before 
any  translation  of  mine  appeared.  How  the  gentle- 
man came  to  see  my  blunders  before  I  committed  them, 
is  not  easy  to  determine  ;  if  he  did  not  conclude  that,  as  a 
Scotsman,  and,  of  course,  descended  of  the  Milesian  race, 
I  might  have  committed  some  of  those  oversights,  which, 
perhaps  very  unjustly,  are  said  to  be  peculiar  to  them. 
From  the  whole  tenor  of  the  Irish  poems  concerning 
the  Fiona,  it  appears  that  Fion  Mac  Comnal  flourished 
in  the  reign  of  Cormac,  which  is  placed,  by  the  univer- 
sal consent  of  the  senaohies,  in  the  third  century. 
They  even  fix  the  death  of  Fingal  in  the  year  2G8,  yet 
his  son  Ossian  is  made  contemporary  with  St.  Patrick, 
who  preached  the  gospel  in  Ireland  about  the  middle 
of  the  fifth  age.  Ossian,  though  at  that  time  he  must 
have  been  two  hundred  and  fifty  years  of  age,  had  a 
daughter  young  enough  to  become  wife  to  the  saint. 
On  account  of  this  family  connection,  "  Patrick  of  the 
Psalms,"  for  so  the  apostle  of  Ireland  is  emphatically 
called  in  the  poems,  took  great  delight  in  the  company 
of  Ossian,  and  in  hearing  the  great  actions  of  his 
family.  The  saint  sometimes  threw  off  the  austerity 
of  his  profession,  drank  freely,  and  had  his  soul 
properly  warmed  with  wine,  to  receive  with  becoming 
enthusiasm  the  poems  of  his  father-in-law.  One  of  the 
poems  begins  with  this  useful  piece  of  information  : 

Lo  don  rabh  Padric  na  mhur, 
Gun  Sailm  air  uidh,  ach  a  goL 
Ghluais  £  thigh  Ossian  mhic  Fhion, 
O  »an  leis  bu  bhinn  a  ghloir. 


80  DI.SSERTJ.TION  ON 

The  title  of  this  poem  is  "  Teantach  rnor  na  Fit  a." 
It  appears  to  have  been  founded  on  the  same  storj  with 
the  "  Battle  of  Lora."  The  circumstances  and  catas- 
trophe in  both  are  much  the  same :  but  the  Irish  Os- 
sian  discovers  the  age  in  which  he  lived  by  an  unlucky 
anachronism.  After  describing  the  total  rout  of  Er 
ragon,  he  very  gravely  concludes  with  this  remarkable 
anecdote,  that  none  of  the  foe  escaped,  but  a  few,  who 
were  permitted  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy 
Land.  This  circumstance  fixes  the  date  of  the  com- 
position of  the  piece  some  centuries  after  the  famous 
croisade  :  for  it  is  evident  that  the  poet  thought  the 
time  of  the  croisade  so  ancient,  that  he  confounds  it 
with  the  age  of  Fingal.  Erragon,  hi  the  course  of 
this  poem,  is  often  called, 

Rhoigh  Lochlin  an  do  shloigh, 
King  of  Denmark  of  two  nations- 

which  alludes  to  the  union  of  the  kingdom  of  Norway 
and  Denmark,  a  circumstance  which  happened  under 
Margaret  de  Waldemar,  in  the  close  of  the  fourteenth 
age.  Modern,  however,  as  this  pretended  Ossian  was, 
it  is  certain  he  lived  before  the  Irish  had  dreamed  of 
appropriating  Fion,  or  Fingal,  to  themselves.  He  con- 
cludes the  poem  with  this  reflection  : 

Na  fagha  se  comhthrom  nan  n  arm, 
Erragon  Mac  Annir  nan  lann  glas 
'San  n'Albin  ni  n'  abairtair  Tnath 
Agus  ghlaoite  an  u'  Fhiona  as. 

"  Had  Erragon,  son  of  Annir  of  gleaming  swords, 
avoided  the  equal  contest  of  arms,  (single  combat,)  no 
chief  should  have  afterward  been  numbered  in  Albion, 
and  the  heroes  of  Fion  should  no  more  be  named." 

The  next  poem  that  falls  under  our  observation  is 
" Cath-cabhra,"  or  "The  Death  of  Oscar."  This 
piece  is  founded  on  the  same  story  which  we  have  hi 
the  first  book  of  Temora.  So  little  thought  the  auth  -r 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  81 

of  Cath-cabhra  of  making  Oscar  his  countryman,  that 
in  the  course  of  two  hundred  lines,  of  which  the  poem 
consists,  he  puts  the  following  expression  thrice  in  the 
mouth  of  the  hero : 

Albin  an  sa  d'roina  m'  arach. — 
Albion,  where  I  was  bora  and  bred. 

The  poem  contains  almost  all  the  incidents  in  the  first 
book  of  Temora.  In  one  circumstance  the  bard  dif- 
fers  materially  from  Ossian.  Oscar,  after  he  was  mor- 
tally wounded  by  Cairbar,  was  carried  by  his  people  to 
a  neighboring  hill  which  commanded  a  prospect  of  the 
sea.  A  fleet  appeared  at  a  distance,  and  the  hero  ex- 
claims  with  joy, 

Loingeas  nio  shean-athair  at'  an 
'S  lad  a  tiachd  le  cabhair  chugain, 
O  Albin  na  n'ioma  stuagh. 

"  It  is  the  fleet  of  my  grandfather  coming  with  aid  to 
our  field,  from  Albion  of  many  waves  !"  The  testi- 
mony of  this  bard  is  sufficient  to  confute  the  idle  fic- 
tions of  Keating  and  O'Flaherty,  for,  though  he  is  fai 
from  being  ancient,  it  is  probable  he  flourished  a  full 
century  before  these  historians.  He  appears,  however, 
to  have  been  a  much  better  Christian  than  chronologer  ; 
for  Fion,  though  he  is  placed  two  centuries  before  St. 
Patrick,  very  devoutly  recommends  the  soul  of  his 
grandson  to  his  Redeemer. 

"  Duan  a  Gharibh  Mac-Starn"  is  another  Irish  poem 
in  great  repute.  The  grandeur  of  its  images,  and  its 
propriety  of  sentiment,  might  have  induced  me  to  give 
a  translation  of  it,  had  I  not  some  expectations,  which 
are  now  over,  of  seeing  it  in  the  collection  of  the  Irish 
Ossian's  Poems,  promised  twelve  years  since  to  the 
public.  The  author  descends  sometimes  from  the  re- 
gion of  the  sublime  to  low  and  indecent  description ; 
the  last  of  which,  the  Irish  translator,  no  doubt,  will 
choose  to  leave  in  the  obscurity  of  the  original.  In 


82  DISSERTATION  ON 

this  piece  Cuthullin  is  used  with  very  little  ceremony, 
for  he  is  oft  called  the  "  dog  of  Tara,"  in  the  county 
of  Meath.  This  severe  title  of  the  redoubtable  Cuthul- 
lin, the  most  renowned  of  Irish  champions,  proceeded 
from  the  poet's  ignorance  of  etymology.  Cu,  "  voice" 
or  commander,  signifies  also  a  dog.  The  poet  chose 
the  last,  as  the  most  noble  appellation  for  his  hero. 

The  subject  of  the  poem  is  the  same  with  that  of  the 
epic  poem  of  Fingal.  Caribh  Mac-Starn  is  the  same 
with  Ossian's  Swaran,  the  son  of  Starno.  His  single 
combats  with,  and  his  victory  over,  all  the  heroes  of 
Ireland,  excepting  the  "  celebrated  dog  of  Tara,"  i.  e. 
Cuthullin,  afford  matter  for  two  hundred  lines  of  tole- 
erable  poetry.  Cribh's  progress  in  search  of  Cu- 
thullin, and  his  intrigue  with  the  gigantic  Emir- 
bragal,  that  hero's  wife,  enables  the  poet  to  extend  his 
piece  to  four  hundred  lines.  This  author,  it  is  true, 
makes  Cuthullin  a  native  of  Ireland :  the  gigantic 
Emir-bragal  he  calls  the  "guiding-star  of  the  women 
of  Ireland."  The  property  of  this  enormous  lady  I 
shall  not  dispute  with  him  or  any  other.  But  as  he 
speaks  with  great  tenderness  of  the  "  daughters  of  the 
convent,"  and  throws  out  some  hints  against  the 
English  nation,  it  is  probable  he  lived  in  too  modern  a 
period  to  be  intimately  acquainted  with  the  genealogy 
of  Cuthullin. 

Another  Irish  Ossian,  for  there  were  many,  as  ap- 
pears from  their  difference  in  language  and  sentiment* 
speaks  very  dogmatically  of  Fion  Mac  Comnal,  as  an 
Irishman.  Little  can  be  said  for  the  judgment  of  this 
poet,  and  less  for  his  delicacy  of  sentiment.  The  his- 
tory of  one  of  his  episodes  may,  at  once,  stand  as  a 
specimen  of  his  want  of  both.  Ireland,  in  the  days  of 
Fion,  happened  to  be  threatened  with  an  invasion  b} 
three  great  potentates,  the  kings  of  Lochlin,  Sweden, 
and  France.  It  is  needless  to  insist  upon  the  impro- 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  83 

priety  of  a  French  invasion  of  Ireland  ;  it  is  sufficient 
for  me  to  be  faithful  to  the  language  of  my  author. 
Fion,  upon  receiving  intelligence  of  the  intended  inva- 
sion, sent  Ca-olt,  Ossian,  and  Oscar,  to  watch  the  bay 
in  which  it  was  apprehended  the  enemy  was  to  land. 
Oscar  was  the  worst  choice  of  a  scout  that  could  be 
made  ;  for,  brave  as  he  was,  he  had  the  bad  property 
of  very  often  falling  asleep  on  his  post,  nor  was  it  pos- 
sible to  awake  him,  without  cutting  off  one  of  his  fin- 
gers,  or  dashing  a  large  stone  against  his  head. 
When  the  enemy  appeared,  Oscar,  very  unfortunately, 
was  asleep.  Ossian  and  Ca-olt  consulted  about  the 
method  of  wakening  him,  and  they  at  last  fixed  on  the 
stone  as  the  less  dangerous  expedient — 

Gun  thog  Caoilte  a  chlach,  nach  gan, 
Agus  a  n'  aighai'  chiean  gun  bhuail ; 
Tn  mil  an  tulloch  gun  chri',  &c. 

"  Ca-olt  took  up  a  heavy  stone,  and  struck  it  against 
the  hero's  head.  The  hill  shook  for  three  miles,  as 
the  stone  rebounded  and  rolled  away."  Oscar  rose  in 
wrath,  and  his  father  gravely  desired  him  to  spend  his 
rage  on  his  enemies,  which  he  did  to  so  good  purpose, 
that  he  singly  routed  a  whole  wing  of  their  army. 
The  confederate  kings  advanced,  notwithstanding,  till 
they  came  to  a  narrow  pass  possessed  by  the  cele- 
brated Ton-iosal.  This  name  is  very  significant  of 
the  singular  property  of  the  hero  who  bore  it.  Ton- 
iosal,  though  brave,  was  so  heavy  and  unwieldy,  that 
when  he  sat  down  it  took  the  whole  force  of  a  hundred 
men  to  set  him  upright  on  his  feet  again.  Luckily  for 
the  preservation  of  Ireland,  the  hero  happened  to  be 
standing  when  the  enemy  appeared,  and  he  gave  so 
good  an  account  of  them,  that  Fion,  upon  his  arrival, 
found  little  to  do  but  to  divide  the  spoil  among  his  soldiers. 

All  these  extraordinary  heroes,  Fion,  Ossian,  Oscar, 
and  Ca-olt,  says  the  poet,  were 


84  DISSERTS  nox  ON 

Siol  Erin  na  gqnn  linn. 
The  sons  of  Erin  of  blue  steel. 

Neither  shall  I  much  dispute  the  matter  with  him  ;  he 
has  my  consent  also  to  appropriate  to  Ireland  the  cele- 
brated Ton-iosal.  I  shall  only  say  that  they  are  dif- 
ferent persons  from  those  of  the  same  name  in  the 
Scots  Poems ;  and  that,  though  the  stupendous  valor 
of  the  first  is  so  remarkable,  they  have  not  been 
equally  lucky  with  the  latter,  in  their  poet.  It  is  some- 
what extraordinary  that  Fion,  who  lived  some  ages  be- 
fore St.  Patrick,  swears  like  a  very  good  Christian. 

Air  an  Dia  do  chum  gach  case. 
By  God  who  shaped  every  case. 

It  is  worthy  of  being  remarked,  that,  in  the  line 
quoted,  Ossian,  who  lived  in  St.  Patrick's  days,  seems 
to  have  understood  something  of  the  English,  a  lan- 
guage not  then  subsisting.  A  person  more  sanguine 
for  the  honor  of  his  country  than  I  am,  might  argue 
from  this  circumstance,  that  this  pretendedly  Irish  Os- 
sian was  a  native  of  Scotland  ;  for  my  countrymen  are 
universally  allowed  to  have  an  exclusive  right  to  the 
second  sight. 

From  the  instances  given,  the  reader  may  form  a 
complete  idea  of  the  Irish  compositions  concerning  the 
Fiona.  The  greatest  part  of  them  make  the  heroes  of 
Fion, 

Siol  Albin  a  n'nioma  caoile. 

The  race  of  Albion  of  many  firths. 

The  rest  make  them  natives  of  Ireland.  But  the  truth 
is,  that  their  authority  ia  of  little  consequence  on 
cither  side.  From  the  instances  I  have  given,  they 
appear  to  have  been  the  work  of  a  very  modern  period. 
The  pious  ejaculations  they  contain,  their  allusions  to 
the  manners  of  the  times,  fix  them  to  the  fifteenth  cen- 
lury.  Had  even  the  authors  of  these  pieces  avoided  all 
allusions  to  their  own  times,  it  is  impossible  that  the 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  88 

poems  could  pass  for  ancient  in  the  eyes  of  any  person 
tolerably  conversant  with  the  Irish  tongue.  The  idiom 
is  so  corrupted,  and  so  many  words  borrowed  from  the 
English,  that  the  language  must  have  made  considera- 
ble progress  in  Ireland  before  the  poems  were  written. 

It  remains  now  to  show  how  the  Irish  bards  began 
to  appropriate  the  Scottish  Ossian  and  his  heroes  to 
their  own  country.  After  the  English  conquest,  many 
of  the  natives  of  Ireland,  averse  to  a  foreign  yoke, 
either  actually  were  in  a  state  of  hostility  with  the  con- 
querors,  or,  at  least,  paid  little  regard  to  government. 
The  Scots,  in  those  ages,  were  often  in  open  war,  and 
never  in  cordial  friendship,  with  the  English.  The 
similarity  of  manners  and  language,  the  traditions  con- 
cerning  their  common  origin,  and,  above  all,  their 
having  to  do  with  the  same  enemy,  created  a  free  and 
friendly  intercourse  between  the  Scottish  and  Irish 
nations.  As  the  custom  of  retaining  bards  and  sena- 
chies  was  common  to  both,  so  each,  no  doubt,  had 
formed  a  system  of  history,  it  matters  not  how  much 
soever  fabulous,  concerning  their  respective  oi-igin.  It 
was  the  natural  policy  of  the  times  to  reconcile  the 
traditions  of  both  nations  together,  and,  if  possible,  to 
deduce  them  from  the  same  original  stock. 

The  Saxon  manners  and  language  had,  at  that  time, 
made  great  progress  in  the  south  of  Scotland.  The 
ancient  language,  and  the  traditional  history  of  the  na- 
tion, became  confined  entirely  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Highlands,  then  falling,  from  several  concurring  cir- 
cumstances, into  the  last  degree  of  ignorance  and  bar- 
barism. The  Irish,  who,  for  some  ages  before  the 
conquest,  had  possessed  a  competent  share  of  that  kind 
of  learning  which  then  prevailed  in  Europe,  found  it 
no  difficult  matter  to  impose  their  own  fictions  on  the 
ignorant  Highland  senachies.  By  flattering  the  vanity 
of  the  Highlanders  with  their  long  list  of  Hermonian 

8 


86  DISSERTATION  ON 

kings  and  heroes,  they,  without  contradiction,  assumed 
to  themselves  the  character  of  being  the  mother-nation 
of  the  Scots  of  Britain.  At  this  time,  certainly,  was 
established  that  Hibernian  system  of  the  original  of 
the  Scots,  which  afterward,  for  want  of  any  other,  was 
universally  received.  The  Scots  of  the  low  country, 
who,  by  losing  the  language  of  their  ancestors,  lost, 
together  with  it,  their  national  traditions,  received  im- 
plicitly the  history  of  their  country  from  Irish  refugees, 
or  from  Highland  senachies,  persuaded  over  into  the 
Hibernian  system. 

These  circumstances  are  far  from  being  ideal.  We 
have  remaining  many  particular  traditions  which  bear 
testimony  to  a  fact  of  itself  abundantly  probable. 
What  makes  the  matter  incontestible  is,  that  the  an- 
cient  traditional  accounts  of  the  genuine  origin  of  the 
Scots,  have  been  handed  down  without  interruption. 
Though  a  few  ignorant  senachies  might  be  persuaded 
out  of  their  own  opinion  by  the  smoothness  of  an 
Irish  tale,  it  was  impossible  to  eradicate,  from  among 
the  bulk  of  the  people,  their  own  national  traditions. 
These  traditions  afterward  so  much  prevailed,  that  the 
Highlanders  continue  totally  unacquainted  with  the  pre- 
tended Hibernian  extract  of  the  Scotch  nation.  Igno- 
rant chronicle  writers,  strangers  to  the  ancient  lan- 
guage of  their  country,  preserved  only  from  falling  to 
the  ground  so  improbable  a  story. 

This  subject,  perhaps,  is  pursued  farther  than  it  de- 
serves ;  but  a  discussion  of  the  pretensions  of  Ireland 
was  become  in  some  measure  necessary.  If  the  Irish 
poems  concerning  the  Fiona  should  appear  ridiculous, 
it  is  but  justice  to  observe,  that  they  are  scarcely  more 
so  than  the  poems  of  other  nations  at  that  period.  On 
other  subjects,  the  bards  of  Ireland  have  displayed  a 
genuis  for  poelry.  It  was  alone  in  matters  of  antiquity 
that  they  were  monstrous  in  their  fables.  Their  ove- 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  87 

sonnets,  and  their  elegies  on  the  death  of  persons  wor- 
thy or  renowned,  abound  with  simplicity,  and  a  wild  har- 
mony of  numbers.  They  became  more  than  an  atone- 
ment for  their  errors  in  every  other  species  of  poetry. 
But  the  beauty  of  these  species  depends  so  much  on  a 
certain  cunosa  felicitas  of  expression  in  the  original, 
that  they  must  appear  much  to  disadvantage  in  another 
language. 


A 

CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 
on 

THE    POEMS    OF    OSSIAN, 

THE  SON  OF  FI.NGAL. 

BY  HUGH  BLAIR,  D.  D. 

One  of  the  Ministers  of  the  High  Church,  and  Professor  of  Rhetoric 
and  Belles  Lettres,  Edinburgh. 


AMONG  the  monuments  remaining  of  the  ancient  state 
of  nations,  few  are  more  valuable  than  their  poems  or 
songs.  History,  when  it  treats  of  remote  or  dark  ages, 
is  seldom  very  instructive.  The  beginnings  of  society, 
in  every  country,  are  involved  in  fabulous  confusion ; 
and  though  they  were  not,  they  would  furnish  few 
events  worth  recording.  But,  in  every  period  of  so- 
ciety,  human  manners  are  a  curious  spectacle  ;  and  the 
most  natural  pictures  of  ancient  manners  are  exhibited 
in  the  ancient  poems  of  nations.  These  present  to  us 
what  is  much  more  valuable  than  the  history  of  such 
transactions  as  a  rude  age  can  afford — the  history  of 
human  imagination  and  passion.  They  make  us  ac- 
quainted with  the  notions  and  feelings  of  our  fellow 
creatures  in  the  most  artless  ages ;  discovering  what 
objects  they  admired,  and  what  pleasures  they  pursued, 
before  those  refinements  of  society  had  taken  place, 
which  enlarge,  indeed,  and  diversify  the  transactions, 
but  disguise  the  manners  of  mankind. 


CRITICAL   DISSERTATION,  ETC.  8§ 

Besides  this  merit  which  ancient  poems  have  with 
philosophical  observers  of  human  nature,  they  have 
another  with  persons  of  taste.  They  promise  some  of 
the  highest  beauties  of  poetical  writing.  Irregular 
and  unpolished  we  may  expect  the  production  of  uncul- 
tivated ages  to  be ;  but  abounding,  at  the  same  time, 
with  that  enthusiasm,  that  vehemence  and  fire,  which 
are  the  soul  of  poetry :  for  many  circumstances  of 
those  times  which  we  call  barbarous,  are  favorable  to 
the  poetical  spirit.  That  state,  in  which  human  nature 
shoots  wild  and  free,  though  unfit  for  other  improve- 
ments, certainly  encourages  the  high  exertions  of  fan- 
cy and  passion. 

In  the  infancy  of  societies,  men  live  scattered  and 
dispersed  in  the  midst  of  solitary  rural  scenes,  where 
the  beauties  of  nature  are  their  chief  entertainment. 
They  meet  with  many  objects  to  them  new  and  strange  ; 
their  wonder  and  surprise  are  frequently  excited  ;  and 
by  the  sudden  changes  of  fortune  occurring  in  their 
unsettled  state  of  life,  their  passions  are  raised  to  the 
utmost ;  their  passions  have  nothing  to  restrain  them, 
their  imagination  has  nothing  to  check  it.  They  dis- 
play themselves  to  one  another  without  disguise,  and 
converse  and  act  in  the  uncovered  simplicity  of  nature. 
As  their  feelings  are  strong,  so  their  language,  of  it- 
self, assumes  a  poetical  turn.  Prone  to  exaggerate, 
they  describe  every  thing  in  the  strongest  colors  ;  which 
of  course  renders  their  speech  picturesque  and  figura- 
tive. Figurative  language  owes  its  rise  chiefly  to  two 
causes  ;  to  the  want  of  proper  names  for  objects,  and 
to  the  influence  of  imagination  and  passion  over  the 
form  of  expression.  Both  these  causes  concur  in  the 
infancy  of  society.  Figures  are  commonly  considered 
as  artificial  modes  of  speech,  devised  by  orators  and 
poets,  after  the  world  had  advanced  to  a  refined  state. 
The  contrary  of  this  is  the  truth.  Men  never  Inve 
8* 


90  CRITICAL    MSSEBTATION 

used  so  many  figures  of  style  as  in  those  rude  ages, 
when,  besides  the  power  of  a  warm  imagination  to  sug- 
gest  lively  images,  the  want  of  proper  and  precise 
terms  for  the  ideas  they  would  express,  obliged  them  to 
have  recourse  to  circumlocution,  metaphor,  compari. 
son,  and  all  those  substituted  forms  of  expression, 
which  give  a  poetical  air  to  language.  An  American 
chief,  at  this  day,  harangues  at  the  head  of  his  tribe  in 
a  more  bold  and  metaphorical  style  than  a  modern  Eu- 
ropean would  adventure  to  use  in  an  epic  poem. 

In  the  progress  of  society,  the  genius  and  manners 
of  men  undergo  a  change  more  favorable  to  accuracy 
than  to  sprightliness  and  sublimity.  As  the  world  ad- 
vances, the  understanding  gains  ground  upon  the  ima- 
gination ;  the  understanding  is  more  exercised ;  the 
imagination,  less.  Fewer  objects  occur  that  are  new  or 
surprising.  Men  apply  themselves  to  trace  the  causes 
of  things  ;  they  correct  and  refine  one  another  ;  they 
subdue  or  disguise  their  passions  ;  they  form  their  ex- 
terior manners  upon  one  uniform  standard  of  politeness 
and  civility.  Human  nature  is  pruned  according  to 
method  and  rule.  Language  advances  from  sterility 
to  copiousness,  and  at  the  same  time  from  fervor  and 
enthusiasm,  to  correctness  and  precision.  Style  be- 
comes more  chaste,  but  less  animated.  The  progress 
of  the  world  in  this  respect  resembles  the  progress  of 
age  in  man.  The  powers  of  imagination  are  most 
vigorous  and  predominant  in  youth ;  those  of  the  un- 
derstanding ripen  more  slowly,  and  often  attain  not  to 
their  maturity  till  the  imagination  begins  to  flag.  Hence 
•poetry,  which  is  the  child  of  imagination,  is  frequently 
most  glowing  ana  animated  in  the  first  ages  of  society 
As  the  ideas  of  our  youth  are  remembered  with  a  pe- 
culiar pleasure,  on  account  of  their  liveliness  and  vi- 
vacity, so  the  most  ancient  poems  have  often  proved 
the  greatest  favorites  of  nations. 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  91 

Poetry  has  been  said  to  be  more  ancient  than  prose  ; 
and,  however  paradoxical  such  an  assertion  may  seem, 
yet,  in  a  qualified  sense,  it  is  true.  Men  certainly  never 
conversed  with  one  another  in  regular  numbers ;  but 
even  their  ordinary  language  would,  in  ancient  times, 
for  the  reasons  before  assigned,  approach  to  a  poetical 
style ;  and  the  first  compositions  transmitted  to  pos- 
terity, beyond  doubt,  were,  in  a  literal  sense,  poems ; 
that  is,  compositions  in  which  imagination  had  tho 
chief  hand,  formed  into  some  kind  of  numbers,  anJ 
pronounced  with  a  musical  modulation  or  tone.  Mus  c 
or  song  has  been  found  coeval  with  society  among  tie 
most  barbarous  nations.  The  only  subjects  whioh 
could  prompt  men,  in  their  first  rude  state,  to  utter 
their  thoughts  in  compositions  of  any  length,  were  such 
as  naturally  assumed  the  tone  of  poetry  •  praises  of 
their  gods,  or  of  their  ancestors  ;  commemorations  of 
their  own  warlike  exploits,  or  lamentations  over  their 
misfortunes.  And,  before  writing  was  invented,  no 
other  compositions,  except  songs  or  poems,  could  take 
such  hold  of  the  imagination  and  memory,  as  to  be  pre- 
served by  oral  tradition,  and  handed  down  from  one 
race  to  another. 

Hence  we  may  expect  to  find  poems  among  the  an- 
tiquities  of  all  nations.  It  is  probable,  too,  that  an  ex- 
tensive  search  would  discover  a  certain  degree  of 
resemblance  among  all  the  most  ancient  poetical  pro- 
ductions, from  whatever  country  they  have  proceeded. 
In  a  similar  state  of  manners,  similar  objects  and 
passions,  operating  upon  the  imaginations  of  men,  will 
stamp  their  productions  with  the  same  general  charac- 
ter. Some  diversity  will,  no  doubt,  be  occasioned  by 
climate  and  genius.  But  mankind  never  bear  such 
resembling  features  as  they  do  in  the  beginnings  of 
society.  Its  subsequent  revolutions  give  rise  to  the 
principal  distinctions  among  nations ;  and  divert,  into 


92  -   CRITICAL  DISSERTAlfO 

channels  widely  separated,  that  current  of  human 
genius  and  manners  which  descends  originally  from 
one  spring.  What  we  have  been  long  accustomed  to 
call  the  oriental  vein  of  poetry,  because  some  of  the 
earliest  poetical  productions  have  come  to  us  from  the 
east,  is  probably  no  more  oriental  than  occidental :  it 
is  characteristical  of  an  age  rather  than  a  country , 
and  belongs,  in  some  measure,  to  all  nations  at  a  cer- 
tain period.  Of  this  the  works  of  Ossian  seem  to  fur- 
nish a  remarkable  proof. 

Our  present  subject  leads  us  to  investigate  the  an- 
cient poetical  remains,  not  so  much  of  the  east,  or  of 
the  Greeks  and  Romans,  as  of  the  northern  nations^  in 
order  to  discover  whether  the  Gothic  poetry  has  any 
resemblance  to  the  Celtic  or  Gaelic,  which  we  are 
about  to  consider.  Though  the  Goths,  under  which 
name  we  usually  comprehend  all  the  Scandinavian 
tribes,  were  a  people  altogether  fierce  and  martial, 
and  noted,  to  a  proverb,  for  their  ignorance  of  the  lib- 
eral arts,  yet  they  too,  from  the  ear 'iest  times,  had  their 
poets  and  their  songs.  Their  poets  were  distinguished 
by  the  title  of  Scalders,  and  their  songs  were  termed 
Vyses.  Saxo  Grammaticus,  a  Danish  h-storian  of  con- 
siderable note,  who  flourished  in  the  thirteenth  century, 
informs  us,  that  very  many  of  these  songs.,  containing 
the  ancient  traditionary  stories  of  the  country,  were 
found  engraven  upon  rocks  in  the  old  Runic  character, 
several  of  which  he  has  translated  into  Latin,  and  in- 
serted into  his  history.  But  his  versions  are  plainly  so 
paraphrastical,  and  forced  into  such  an  imitation  of  the 
style  and  the  measures  of  the  Roman  poets,  that  one 
can  form  no  judgment  from  them  of  the  native  spirit 
of  the  original.  A  more  curious  monument  of  the  true 
Gothic  poetry  is  preserved  by  Olaus  Wormius  in  his 
book  de  Literatura  Runica.  It  is  an  epicedium,  or  fu- 
neral song,  composed  by  Regner  Lodbrog,  and  tians- 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  93 

'Jated  by  Olaus,  word  for  word,  from  the  original. 
This  Lodbrog  was  a  king  of  Denmark,  who  lived  in 
the  eighth  century,  famous  for  his  wars  and  victories  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  an  eminent  scalder,  or  poet.  It 
was  his  misfortune  to  fall  at  last  into  the  hands  of  one  of 
his  enemies,  by  whom  he  was  thrown  into  prison,  and 
condemned  to  be  destroyed  by  serpents.  In  this  situ- 
ation  he  solaced  himself  with  rehearsing  all  the  exploits 
of  his  life.  The  poem  is  divided  into  twenty-nine 
stanzas,  of  ten  lines  each ;  and  every  stanza  begins 
with  these  words,  "  Pugnavimus  ensibus,"  We  have 
fought  with  our  swords.  Olaus's  version  is  in  many 
places  so  obscure  as  to  be  hardly  intelligible.  I  have 
subjoined  the  whole  below,  exactly  as  he  has  published 
it  ;*  and  shall  translate  as  much  as  may  give  the  Eng- 
lish reader  an  idea  of  the  spirit  and  strain  of  this  kind 
of  poetiy. 

"  We  have  fought  with  our  swords.  I  was  young, 
when,  towards  the  east,  in  the  bay  of  Oreon,  we  made 
torrents  of  blood  flow,  to  gorge  the  ravenous  beast  of 
prey,  and  the  yellow-footed  bird.  There  resounded 
the  hard  steel  upon  the  lofty  helmets  of  men.  The 
whole  ocean  was  one  wound.  The  crow  waded  in  the 
blood  of  the  slain.  When  we  had  numbered  twenty 
years,  we  lifted  our  spears  on  high,  and  everywhere 
spread  our  renown.  Eight  barons  we  overcame  in  the 
east,  before  the  port  of  Diminum  ;  and  plentifully  we 
feasted  the  eagle  in  that  slaughter.  The  warm  stream 
of  wounds  ran  into  the  ocean.  The  army  fell  before 
us.  When  we  steered  our  ships  into  the  mouth  of  the 
Vistula,  we  sent  the  Helsingians  to  the  hall  of  Odin. 
Then  did  the  sword  bite.  The  waters  were  all  one 
wound.  The  earth  was  dyed  red  with  the  warm 
stream.  The  sword  rung  upon  the  coats  of  mail,  and 

*  Sec  the  note  at  the  end  of  the  Dissertation. 


94  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

clove  the  bucklers  in  twain.  None  fled  on  that  day, 
till  among  his  ships  Heraudus  fell.  Than  him  no 
braver  baron  cleaves  the  sea  with  ships;  a  cheerful 
heart  did  he  ever  bring  to  the  combat.  Then  the  host 
threw  away  their  shields,  when  the  uplifted  spear  flew 
at  the  breast  of  heroes.  The  sword  bit  the  Scarfian 
rocks  ;  bloody  was  the  shield  in  battle,  until  Rafno  the 
king  was  slain.  From  the  heads  of  warriors  the  warm 
sweat  streamed  down  their  armor.  The  crows  around 
the  Indirian  islands  had  an  ample  prey.  It  were  diffi- 
cult to  single  out  one  among  so  many  deaths.  At  the 
rising  of  the  sun  I  beheld  the  spears  piercing  the  bo- 
dies of  foes,  and  the  bows  throwing  forth  their  steel- 
pointed  arrows.  Loud  roared  the  swords  in  the  plains 
of  Lano. — The  virgin  long  bewailed  the  slaughter  of 
that  morning." — In  this  strain  the  poet  continues  to 
describe  several  other  military  exploits.  The  images 
are  not  much  varied  :  the  noise  of  arms,  the  streaming  of 
blood,  and  the  feasting  the  birds  of  prey  often  recurring. 
He  mentions  the  death  of  two  of  his  sons  in  battle ; 
and  the  lamentation  he  describes  as  made  for  one  of 
them  is  very  singular.  A  Grecian  or  a  Roman  poet 
would  have  introduced  the  virgins  or  nymphs  of  the 
wood  bewailing  the  untimely  fall  of  a  young  hero. 
But,  says  our  Gothic  poet,  "  When  Rogvaldus  was 
slain,  for  him  mourned  all  the  hawks  of  heaven,"  as 
lamenting  a  benefactor  who  had  so  liberally  supplied 
them  with  prey  ;  "  for  boldly,"  as  he  adds,  "  in  the 
strife  of  swords  did  the  breaker  of  helmets  throw  the 
spear  of  blood." 

The  poem  concludes  with  sentiments  of  the  highest 
bravery  and  contempt  of  death.  "  What  is  more  cer- 
tain to  the  brave  man  than  death,  though  amidst  the 
storm  of  swords  he  stands  always  ready  to  oppose  it  ? 
He  only  regrets  this  life  who  hath  never  known  dis- 
tress. The  timorous  man  allures  the  devouring  eagle  to 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIXN.  95 

the  field  of  battle.  The  coward,  wherever  he  comes,  is 
useless  to  himself.  This  I  esteem  honorable,  that  the 
youth  should  advance  to  the  combat  fairly  matched  one 
against  another  ;  nor  man  retreat  from  man.  Long 
was  this  the  warrior's  highest  glory.  He  who  aspires 
to  the  love  of  virgins,  ought  always  to  be  foremost  in 
the  roar  of  arms.  It  appears  to  me,  of  truth,  that  we 
are  led  by  the  Fates.  Seldom  can  any  overcome  the 
appointment  of  destiny.  Little  did  I  foresee  that  Ella 
was  to  have  my  life  in  his  hands,  in  that  day  when 
fainting  I  concealed  my  blood,  and  pushed  forth  my 
ships  into  the  waves  ;  after  we  had  spread  a  repast  for 
the  beasts  of  prey  throughout  the  Scottish  bays.  But 
this  makes  me  always  rejoice,  that  in  the  halls  of  our  fa- 
.ther  Balder  [or  Odin]  I  know  there  are  seats  prepared, 
where,  in  a  short  time,  we  shall  be  drinking  ale  out  of 
the  hollow  skulls  of  our  enemies.  In  the  house  of  the 
mighty  Odin,  no  brave  man  laments  death.  I  come 
not  with  the  voice  of  despair  to  Odin's  hall.  How 
eagerly  would  all  the  sons  of  Aslauga  now  rush  to  war, 
did  they  know  the  distress  of  their  father,  whom  a  mul- 
titude of  venomous  serpents  tear  !  I  have  given  to  my 
children  a  mother  who  hath  filled  their  hearts  with 
valor.  I  am  fast  approaching  to  my  end.  A  cruel 
death  awaits  me  from  the  viper's  bite.  A  snake  dwells 
in  the  midst  of  my  heart.  I  hope  that  the  sword  of 
some  of  my  sons  shall  yet  be  stained  with  the  blood  of 
Ella.  The  valiant  youths  will  wax  red  with  anger, 
and  will  not  sit  in  peace.  Fifty  and  one  times  have  I 
reared  the  standard  in  battle.  In  my  youth  I  learned 
to  dye  the  sword  in  blood  :  my  hope  was  then  that  no 
king  among  men  would  be  more  renowned  than  me. 
The  goddesses  of  death  will  now  soon  call  me  ;  I  must 
not  mourn  my  death.  Now  I  end  my  song.  The  god- 
desses  invite  me  away ;  they  whom  Odin  has  sent  to 
me  from  his  hall.  I  will  sit  upon  a  lofty  seat,  and 


96  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

drink  ale  joyfully  with  the  goddesses  of  death.  The 
hours  of  my  life  are  run  out.  I  will  smile  when  I 
die." 

This  is  such  poetry  as  we  might  expect  from  a  bar- 
barous nation.  It  breathes  a  most  ferocious  spirit.  It 
is  wild,  harsh,  and  irregular  ;  but  at  the  same  time 
animated  and  strong ;  the  style  in  the  original,  full  of 
inversions,  and,  as  we  learn  from  some  of  Olaus's 
notes,  highly  metaphorical  and  figured. 

But  when  we  open  the  works  of  Ossian,  a  very  dif- 
ferent scene  presents  itself.  There  we  find  the  fire 
and  enthusiasm  of  the  most  early  times,  combined  with 
an  amazing  degree  of  regularity  and  art.  We  find 
tenderness,  and  even  delicacy  of  sentiment,  greatly 
predominant  over  fierceness  and  barbarity.  Our 
hearts  are  melted  with  the  softest  feelings,  and  at  the 
same  time  elevated  with  the  highest  ideas  of  magnani- 
mity, generosity,  and  true  heroism.  When  we  turn 
from  the  poetry  of  Lodbrog  to  that  of  Ossian,  it  is  like 
passing  from  a  savage  desert  into  a  fertile  and  cultivated 
country.  How  is  this  to  be  accounted  for  ?  or  by  what 
means  to  be  reconciled  with  the  remote  antiquity  at- 
tributed to  these  pocrns  ?  This  is  a  curious  point,  and 
requires  to  be  illustrated. 

That  the  ancient  Scots  were  of  Celtic  original,  is 
padt  all  doubt.  Their  conformity  with  the  Celtic  na- 
tions in  language,  manners,  and  religion,  proves  it  to  a 
full  demonstration.  The  Celtse,  a  great  and  mighty 
people,  altogether  distinct  from  the  Goths  and  Teutones, 
once  extended  their  dominion  over  all  the  west  of  Eu- 
rope ;  but  seem  to  have  had  their  most  full  and  com- 
plete establishment  in  Gaul.  Wherever  the  Ccltoe  or 
Gauls  are  mentioned  by  ancient  writers,  we  seldom 
fail  to  hear  of  their  Druids  and  their  Bards  ;  the  insti- 
tution of  which  two  orders  was  the  capital  distinction 
of  their  manners  and  policy.  The  druids  were  their 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  97 

philosophers  and  priests  ;  the  bards  their  poets  and  re- 
corders of  heroic  actions ;  and  both  these  orders  of 
men  seem  to  have  subsisted  among  them,  as  chief  mem- 
bers of  the  state,  from  time  immemorial.  We  must  not 
therefore  imagine  the  Celtse  to  have  been  altogether  a 
gross  and  rude  nation.  They  possessed  from  very  re- 
mote ages  a  formed  system  of  discipline  and  manners, 
which  appears  to  have  had  a  deep  and  lasting  influence 
Ammianus  Marcellinus  gives  them  this  express  testi- 
mony, that  there  flourished  among  them  the  study  of 
the  most  laudable  arts,  introduced  by  the  bards,  whose 
office  it  was  to  sing  in  heroic  verse  the  gallant  actions 
of  illustrious  men;  and  by  the  druids,  who  lived  toge- 
ther in  colleges,  or  societies,  after  the  Pythagorean 
manner,  and,  philosophizing  upon  the  highest  subjects, 
asserted  the  immortality  of  the  human  soul.  Though 
Julius  Caesar,  in  his  account  of  Gaul,  does  not  expressly 
mention  the  bards,  yet  it  is  plain  that,  under  the  title 
of  Druids,  he  comprehends  that  whole  college  or  or- 
der ;  of  which  the  bards,  who,  it  is  probable,  were  the 
disciples  of  the  druids,  undoubtedly  made  a  part.  It 
deserves  remark,  that,  according  to  his  account,  the 
druidical  institution  first  took  rise  in  Britain,  and  passed 
from  thence  into  Gaul  ;  so  that  they  who  aspired  to  be 
thorough  masters  of  that  learning,  were  wont  to  resort 
to  Britain.  He  adds,  too,  that  such  as  were  to  be  in- 
itiated among  the  druids,  were  obliged  to  commit  to 
their  memory  a  great  number  of  verses,  insomuch  that 
some  employed  twenty  years  in  this  course  of  educa- 
tion ;  and  that  they  did  not  think  it  lawful  to  record 
those  poems  in  writing,  but  sacredly  handed  them 
down  by  tradition  from  race  to  race. 

So  strong  was  the  attachment  of  the  Celtic  nations  tc 
their  poetry  and  bards,  that,  amidst  all  the  changes  of 
their  government  and  manners,  even  long  after  the  or- 
der of  the  druids  was  extinct,  and  the  national  religion 
9 


98  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

altered,  the  bards  continued  to  flourish ;  not  as  a  set  of 
strolling  songsters,  like  the  Greek  'AotSoi,  or  Rhapso- 
dists,  in  Homer's  time,  but  as  an  order  of  men  highly 
icspected  in  the  state,  and  supported  by  a  public  estab- 
lishment. We  find  them,  according  to  the  testimonies 
of  Strabo  and  Diodorus,  before  the  age  of  Augustus 
Caesar ;  and  we  find  them  remaining  under  the  same 
name,  and  exercising  the  same  functions  as  of  old,  in 
Ireland,  and  in  the  north  of  Scotland,  almost  down  to 
dur  own  times.  It  is  well  known,  that  in  both  these 
countries  every  regulus  or  chief  had  his  own  bard,  who 
ivas  considered  as  an  officer  of  rank  in  his  court ;  and  had 
lands  assigned  him,  which  descended  to  his  family.  Of 
the  honor  in  which  the  bards  were  held,  many  instances 
occur  in  Ossian's  Poems.  .On  all  important  occasions 
they  were  the  ambassadors  between  contending  chiefs ; 
and  their  persons  were  held  sacred.  "  Cairbar  feared  to 
stretch  his  sword  to  the  bards,  though  his  soul  was 
dark.  '  Loose  the  bards,'  said  his  brother  Cathmor, 
1  they  are  the  sons  of  other  times.  Their  voice  shall 
be  heard  in  other  ages,  when  the  kings  of  Temora  have 
failed.' ' 

From  all  this,  the  Celtic  tribes  clearly  appear  to  have 
been  addicted  in  so  high  a  degree  to  poetry,  and  to 
have  made  it  so  much  their  study  from  the  earliest 
times,  as  may  remove  our  wonder  at  meeting  with  a 
vein  of  higher  poetical  refinement  among  them,  than 
was  at  first  to  have  been  expected  among  nations  whom 
we  are  accustomed  to  call  barbarous.  Barbarity,  I 
must  observe,  is  a  very  equivocal  term  ;  it  admits  of 
many  different  forms  and  degrees ;  and  though,  in  all 
of  them,  it  excludes  polished  manners,  it  is,  however, 
not  inconsistent  with  generous  sentiments  and  tender 
affections.  What  degrees  of  friendship,  love,  and 
heroism  may  possibly  be  found  to  prevail  in  a  rude  state 
of  society,  no  one  can  say.  Astonishing  instances  of 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  99 

them  we  know,  from  history,  have  sometimes  appear- 
ed ;  and  a  few  characters,  distinguished  by  those  high 
qualities,  might  lay  a  foundation  for  a  set  of  manners 
being  introduced  into  the  songs  of  the  bards,  more  re. 
fined,  it  is  probable,  and  exalted,  according  to  the  usual 
poetical  license,  than  the  real  manners  of  the  country. 
In  particular,  with  respect  to  heroism ;  the  great 
employment  of  the  Celtic  bards  was  to  delineate  the 
characters,  and  sing  the  praises  of  heroes.  So  Lucan — 

Yos  quoque  qui  fortes  animos,  bellpque  peremptos, 
Lauclibus  in  1  jr.f ,nm  vates  difiunditis  eevum 
Plurima  secim  t  jdistis  carmina  bardi. — Phars.  1.  1. 

Now  when  we  consider  a  college  or  order  of  men, 
who,  cultivating  poetry  throughout  a  long  series  of  ages, 
had  their  imaginations  continually  employed  on  the 
ideas  of  heroism ;  who  had  all  the  poems  and  pane 
gyrics,  which  were  composed  by  their  predecessors, 
handed  down  to  them  with  care ;  who  rivalled  and 
endeavored  to  outstrip  those  who  had  gone  before 
them,  each  in  the  celebration  of  his  particular  hero ; 
is  it  not  natural  to  think,  that  at  length  the  character 
of  a  hero  would  appear  in  their  songs  with  the  highest 
lustre,  and  be  adorned  with  qualities  truly  noble  ? 
Some  of  the  qualities  indeed  which  distinguish  a  Fin- 
gal,  moderation,  humanity,  and  clemency,  would  not 
probably  be  the  first  ideas  of  heroism  occurring  to  a 
barbarous  people :  but  no  sooner  had  such  ideas  be- 
gun  to  dawn  on  the  minds  of  poets,  than,  as  the  hu- 
man mind  easily  opens  to  the  native  representations 
of  human  perfection,  they  would  be  seized  and  em- 
braced ;  they  would  enter  into  their  panegyrics  ;  they 
would  afford  materials  for  succeeding  bards  to  work 
upon  and  improve  ;  they  would  contribute  not  a  little 
to  exalt  the  public  manners.  For  such  songs  as  these, 
familiar  to  the  Celtic  warriors  from  their  childhood, 
and,  throughout  their  whole  life,  both  in  war  and  in 


100  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

peace,  their  principal  entertainment,  must  have  had  a 
very  considerable  influence  in  propagating  among 
them  real  manners,  nearly  approaching  to  the  poeti- 
cal ;  and  in  forming  even  such  a  hero  as  Fingal. 
Especially  when  we  consider,  that  among  their  limited 
objects  of  ambition,  among  the  few  advantages  which, 
in  a  savage  state,  man  could  obtain  over  man,  the 
chief  was  fame,  and  that  immortality  which  they  ex- 
pected to  receive  from  their  virtues  and  exploits,  in 
the  songs  of  bards. 

Having  made  these  remarks  on  the  Celtic  poetry 
and  bards  in  general,  I  shall  next  consider  the  particu- 
lar advantages  which  Ossian  possessed.  He  appears 
clearly  to  have  lived  in  a  period  which  enjoyed  all  the 
benefit  I  just  now  mentioned  of  traditionary  poetry. 
The  exploits  of  Trathal,  Trenmor,  and  the  other  an- 
cestors of  Fingal,  are  spoken  of  as  familiarly  known. 
Ancient  bards  are  frequently  alluded  to.  In  one  re- 
markable passage  Ossian  describes  himself  as  living  in 
a  sort  of  classical  age,  enlightened  by  the  memorials 
of  former  times,  which  were  conveyed  in  the  songs  of 
bards  ;  and  points  at  a  period  of  darkness  and  igno- 
rance which  lay  beyond  the  reach  of  tradition.  "  His 
words,"  says  he,  "  came  only  by  halves  to  our  ears ; 
they  were  dark  as  the  tales  of  other  times,  before  the 
light  of  the  song  arose."  Ossian  himself  appears  to 
have  been  endowed  by  nature  with  an  exquisite  sensi 
bility  of  heart ;  prone  to  that  tender  melancholy  which 
is  so  often  an  attendant  on  great  genius  :  and  suscepti- 
ble equally  of  strong  and  of  soft  emotion.  He  was 
not  only  a  professed  bard,  educated  with  care,  as  we 
may  easily  believe,  to  all  the  poetical  art  then  known, 
and  connected,  as  he  shows  us  himself,  in  intimate 
friendship  with  the  other  contemporary  bards,  but  a 
warrior  also  ;  and  the  son  of  the  most  renowned  hero 
and  prince  of  his  age.  This  formed  a  conjunction  of 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIATf.  101 

circumstances  uncommonly  favorable  towards  exalting 
the  imagination  of  a  poet.  He  relates  expeditions  in 
which  he  had  been  engaged ;  he  sings  of  battles  in 
which  he  had  fought  and  overcome  ;  he  had  beheld  the 
most  illustrious  scenes  which  that  age  could  exhibit, 
both  of  heroism  in  war  and  magnificence  in  peace. 
For  however  rude  the  magnificence  of  those  times  may 
seem  to  us,  we  must  remember,  that  all  ideas  of  mag- 
nificence are  comparative  ;  and  that  the  age  of  Fingal 
was  an  sera  of  distinguished  splendor  in  that  part  of  the 
world.  Fingal  reigned  over  a  considerable  territory  ; 
he  was  enriched  with  the  spoils  of  the  Roman  province  ; 
he  was  ennobled  by  his  victories  and  great  actions  ; 
and  was  in  all  respects  a  personage  of  much  higher 
dignity  than  any  of  the  chieftains,  or  heads  of  clans, 
who  lived  in  the  same  country,  after  a  more  extensive 
monarchy  was  established. 

The  manners  of  Ossian's  age,  so  far  as  we  can 
gather  them  from  his  writings,  were  abundantly  favor- 
able to  a  poetical  genius.  The  two  dispiriting  vices, 
to  which  Longinus  imputes  the  decline  of  poetry,  cov- 
etousness  and  effeminacy,  were  as  yet  unknown.  The 
cares  of  men  were  few.  They  lived  a  roving  indolent 
life  ;  hunting  and  war  their  principal  employments  ; 
and  their  chief  amusements,  the  music  of  bards,  and 
"  the  feast  of  shells."  The  great  objects  pursued  by 
heroic  spirits,  was  "  to  receive  their  fame  ;"  that  is,  to 
become  worthy  of  being  celebrated  in  the  songs  of 
bards  ;  and  "  to  have  their  name  on  the  four  gray 
stones."  To  die  unlarnented  by  a  bard,  was  deemed  so 
great  a  misfortune  as  even  to  disturb  their  ghosts  in 
another  state.  "  They  wander  in  thick  mists  beside 
the  reedy  lake  ;  but  never  shall  they  rise,  without  the 
song,  to  the  dwelling  of  winds."  After  death,  they 
expected  to  follow  employments  of  the  same  nature 
with  those  which  had  amused  them  on  earth  :  to  fly 
9* 


102  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

with  their  friends  on  clouds,  to  pursue  airy  deer,  and  to 
listen  to  their  praise  in  the  mouths  of  bards.  In  such 
times  as  these,  in  a  country  where  poetry  had  been  so 
long  cultivated,  and  so  highly  honored,  is  it  any  won- 
der that,  among  the  race  and  succession  of  bards,  one 
Homer  should  arise :  a  man,  who.  endowed  with  a 
natural  happy  genius,  favored  with  peculiar  advantages 
of  birth  and  condition,  and  meeting,  in  the  course  of  his 
life,  with  a  variety  of  incidents  proper  to  fire  his  imagi- 
nation, and  to  touch  his  heart,  should  attain  a  degree 
of  eminence  in  poetry,  worthy  to  draw  the  admiration 
of  more  refined  ages  ? 

The  compositions  of  Ossian  are  so  strongly  marked 
with  characters  of  antiquity,  that  although  there  were 
no  external  proof  to  support  that  antiquity,  hardly  any 
reader  of  judgment  and  taste  could  hesitate  in  referring 
them  to  a  very  remote  sera.  There  are  four  great 
stages  through  which  men  successively  pass  in  the  pro- 
gress of  society.  The  first  and  earliest  is  the  life  of 
hunters ;  pasturage  succeeds  to  this,  as  the  ideas  of 
property  begin  to  take  root ;  next  agriculture  ;  and, 
lastly,  commerce.  Throughout  Ossian's  Poems  we 
plainly  find  ourselves  in  the  first  of  these  periods  of  so- 
ciety;  during  which  hunting  was  the  chief  employment  of 
men,  and  the  principal  method  of  their  procuring  subsist- 
ence. Pasturage  was  not  indeed  wholly  unknown ;  for 
we  hear  of  dividing  the  herd  in  the  case  of  a  divorce  ; 
but  the  allusions  to  herds  and  to  cattle  are  not  many ; 
and  of  agriculture  we  find  no  traces.  No  cities  ap- 
pear to  have  been  built  in  the  territories  of  Fingal.  No 
arts  are  mentioned,  except  that  of  navigation  and  of 
working  in  iron.  Every  thing  presents  to  us  the  most 
simple  and  unimproved  manners.  At  their  feasts,  the 
heroes  prepared  their  own  repast ;  they  sat  round  the 
light  of  the  burning  oak ;  the  wind  lifted  their  locks, 
and  whistled  through  their  open  halls.  Whatever  was 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAX.  103 

beyond  the  necessaries  of  life  was  known  to  them  only 
as  the  spoil  of  the  Roman  province  ;  "  the  gold  of  the 
stranger;  the  lights  of  the  stranger;  the  steeds  of 
the  stranger  ;  the  children  of  the  rein." 

The  representation  of  Ossian's  times  must  strike  us 
the  more,  as  genuine  and  authentic,  when  it  is  com- 
pared  with  a  poem  of  later  date,  which  Mr.  Macpher- 
son  has  preserved  in  one  of  his  notes.  It  is  that  in 
which  five  bards  are  represented  as  passing  the  even, 
ing  in  the  house  of  a  chief,  and  each  of  them  separately 
giving  his  description  of  the  night.  The  night  scenery 
is  beautiful ;  and  the  author  has  plainly  imitated  the 
style  and  manner  of  Ossian ;  but  he  has  allowed  some 
images  to  appear  which  betray  a  later  period  of  society. 
For  we  meet  with  windows  clapping,  the  herds  of  goata 
and  cows  seeking  shelter,  the  shepherd  wandering,  corn 
on  the  plain,  and  the  wakeful  hind  rebuilding  the  shocks 
of  corn  which  had  been  overturned  by  the  tempest. 
Whereas,  in  Ossian's  works,  from  beginning  to  end,  al! 
is  consistent ;  no  modern  allusion  drops  from  him  ;  bul 
everywhere  the  same  face  of  rude  nature  appears  ;  a 
country  wholly  uncultivated,  thinly  inhabited,  and  re- 
cently  peopled.  The  grass  of  the  rock,  the  flower  of 
the  heath,  the  thistle  with  its  beard,  are  the  chief  orna- 
ments of  his  landscapes.  "  The  desert,"  says  Fingal^ 
"  is  enough  for  me,  with  all  its  woods  and  deer." 

The  circle  of  ideas  and  transactions  is  no  wider  than 
suits  such  an  age  ;  nor  any  greater  diversity  introduced 
into  characters,  than  the  events  of  that  period  would 
naturally  display.  Valor  and  bodily  strength  are  the 
admired  qualities.  Contentions  arise,  as  is  usual  among 
savage  nations,  from  the  slightest  causes.  To  be  af- 
fronted at  a  tournament,  or  to  be  omitted  in  the  invita. 
tion  to  a  feast,  kindles  a  war.  Women  are  often  car. 
ried  away  by  force ;  and  the  whole  tribe,  as  in  the  Ho- 
meric times,  rise  to  avenge  the  wrong.  The  heroes 


104  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

show  refinement  of  sentiment  indeed  on  several  occa- 
sions, but  none  of  manners.  They  speak  of  their  past 
actions  with  freedom,  boast  of  their  exploits,  and  sing 
their  own  praise.  In  their  battles,  it  is  evident,  that 
drums,  trumpets,  or  bagpipes,  were  not  known  or  used. 
They  had  no  expedient  for  giving  the  military  alarms 
but  striking  a  shield,  or  raising  a  loud  cry :  and  hence 
the  loud  and  terrible  voice  of  Fingal  is  often  mentioned 
as  a  necessary  qualification  of  a  great  general ;  like  the 
/M»  AyaOos  MtvtAaos  of  Homer.  Of  military  discipline  or 
skill  they  appear  to  have  been  entirely  destitute.  Their 
armies  seem  not  to  have  been  numerous  ;  their  battles 
were  disorderly ;  and  terminated,  for  the  most  part,  by 
a  personal  combat,  or  wrestling  of  the  two  chiefs  ;  after 
which,  "the  bard  sung  the  song  of  peace,  and  the  bat- 
tle ceased  along  the  field." 

The  manner  of  composition  bears  all  the  marks  of 
the  greatest  antiquity.  No  artful  transitions,  nor  full 
and  extended  connexion  of  parts ;  such  as  we  find 
among  the  poets  of  later  times,  when  order  and  regu- 
larity of  composition  were  more  studied  and  known  : 
but  a  style  always  rapid  and  vehement ;  narration  con- 
cise, even  to  abruptness,  and  leaving  several  circum- 
stances to  be  supplied  by  the  reader's  imagination. 
The  language  has  all  that  figurative  cast,  which,  as  I 
before  showed,  partly  a  glowing  and  undisciplined  ima- 
gination, partly  the  sterility  of  language  and  the  want 
of  proper  terms,  have  always  introduced  into  the  early 
speech  of  nations  ;  and  in  several  respects,  it  carries  a 
remarkable  resemblance  to  the  style  of  the  Old  Testa- 
ment.  It  deserves  particular  notice,  as  one  of  the  most 
genuine  and  decisive  characters  of  antiquity,  that  very 
few  general  terms,  or  abstract  ideas,  are  to  be  met  with 
in  the  whole  collection  of  Ossian's  works.  The  ideas 
of  men,  at  first,  were  all  particular.  They  had  not 
words  to  express  general  conceptions.  These  were 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  105 

the  consequences  of  more  profound  reflection,  and  lon- 
ger acquaintance  with  the  arts  of  thought  and  of  speech. 
Ossian,  accordingly,  almost  never  expresses  himself  in 
the  abstract.  His  ideas  extended  little  further  than  to 
the  objects  he  saw  around  him.  A  public,  a  commu- 
nity, the  universe,  were  conceptions  beyond  his  sphere. 
Even  a  mountain,  a  sea,  or  a  lake,  which  he  has  occasion 
to  mention,  though  only  in  a  simile,  are  for  the  most 
part  particularized  ;  it  is  the  hill  of  Cromla,  the  storm 
of  the  sea  of  Malmor,  or  the  reeds  of  the  lake  of  Lego. 
A  mode  of  expression  which,  while  it  is  characteris- 
tical  of  ancient  ages,  is  at  the  same  time  highly  favora- 
ble to  descriptive  poetry.  For  the  same  reasons,  per- 
sonification is  a  poetical  figure  not  very  common  with 
Ossian.  Inanimate  objects,  such  as  winds,  trees,  flow- 
ers, he  sometimes  personifies  with  great  beauty.  But 
the  personifications  which  are  so  familiar  to  later  poets, 
of  Fame,  Time,  Terror,  Virtue,  and  the  rest  of  that 
class,  were  unknown  to  our  Celtic  bard.  These  were 
modes  of  conception  too  abstract  for  his  age. 

All  these  are  marks  so  undoubted,  and  some  of  them 
too  so  nice  and  delicate,  of  the  most  early  times,  as  put 
the  high  antiquity  of  these  poems  out  of  question.  Es- 
pecially when  we  consider,  that  if  there  had  been  any 
imposture  in  this  case,  it  must  have  been  contrived 
and  executed  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  two  or  three 
centuries  ago  ;  as  up  to  this  period,  both  by  manu- 
scripts, and  by  the  testimony  of  a  multitude  of  living 
witnesses,  concerning  the  uncontrovertible  tradition  of 
these  poems,  they  can  clearly  be  traced.  Now,  this 
is  a  period  when  that  country  enjoyed  no  advantages 
for  a  composition  of  this  kind,  which  it  may  not  be  sup- 
posed to  have  enjoyed  in  as  great,  if  not  in  a  greater 
degree,  a  thousand  years  before.  To  suppose  that  two 
or  three  hundred  years  ago,  when  we  well  know  the 
Highlands  to  have  been  in  a  state  of  gross  ignorance 


106  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

and  barbarity,  there  should  have  arisen  in  that  country 
a  poet,  of  such  exquisite  genius,  and  of  such  deep 
knowledge  of  mankind,  and  of  history,  as  to  divest 
himself  of  the  ideas  and  manners  of  his  own  age,  and 
to  give  us  a  just  and  natural  picture  of  a  state  of  society 
ancienter  by  a  thousand  years  ;  one  who  could  support 
this  counterfeited  antiquity  through  such  a  large  collec- 
tion of  poems,  without  the  least  inconsistency  ;  and 
who,  possessed  of  all  this  genius  and  art,  had,  at  the 
same  time,  the  self-denial  of  concealing  himself,  and 
of  ascribing  his  own  works  to  an  antiquated  bard,  with- 
out the  imposture  being  detected  ;  is  a  supposition  that 
transcends  all  bounds  of  credibility. 

There  are,  besides,  two  other  circumstances  to  be 
attended  to,  still  of  greater  weight,  if  possible,  against 
this  hypothesis.  One  is,  the  total  absence  of  religious 
ideas  from  this  work  ;  for  which  the  translator  has,  in 
his  preface,  given  a  very  probable  account,  on  the 
footing  of  its  being  the  work  of  Ossian.  The  druidical 
superstition  was,  in  the  days  of  Ossian,  on  the  point  of 
its  final  extinction  ;  and,  for  particular  reasons,  odious 
to  the  family  of  Fingal  ;  whilst  the  Christian  faith  was 
not  yet  established.  But  had  it  been  the  work  of  one 
to  whom  the  ideas  of  Christianity  were  familiar  from 
his  infancy,  and  who  had  superadded  to  them  also  the 
biguted  superstition  of  a  dark  age  and  country,  it  is  im- 
possible but  in  some  passage  or  other,  the  traces  of  them 
would  have  appeared.  The  other  circumstance  is,  the 
entire  silence  which  reigns  with  respect  to  all  the  great 
clans  or  families  which  are  now  established  in  the 
Highlands.  The  origin  of  these  several  clans  is  known 
to  be  very  ancient ;  and  it  is  well  known  that  there  is 
no  passion  by  which  a  native  Highlander  is  more  dis- 
tinguished than  by  attachment  to  his  clan,  and  jealousy 
for  its  honor.  That  a  Highland  bard,  in  forging  a 
work  relating  to  the  antiquities  of  his  country,  should 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  101 

have  inserted  no  circumstance  which  pointed  out  the 
riae  of  his  own  clan,  which  ascertained  its  antiquity,  or 
increased  its  glory,  is,  of  all  suppositions  that  can  be 
formed,  the  most  improbable  ;  and  the  silence  on  this 
head  amounts  to  a  demonstration  that  the  author  lived 
before  any  of  the  present  great  clans  were  formed  or 
known. 

Assuming  it  then,  as  well  we  may,  for  certainty, 
that  the  poems,  now  under  consideration,  are  genuine 
Venerable  monuments  of  a  "very  remote  antiquity,  I 
proceed  to  make  some  remarks  upon  their  general  spirit 
and  strain.  The  two  great  characteristics  of  Ossian's 
poetry  are,  tenderness  and  sublimity.  It  breathes 
nothing  of  the  gay  and  cheerful  kind  ;  an  air  of 
solemnity  and  seriousness  is  diffused  over  the  whole. 
Ossian  is,  perhaps,  the  only  poet  who  never  relaxes, 
or  lets  himself  down  into  the  light  and  amusing  strain  ; 
which  I  readily  admit  to  be  no  small  disadvantage  to 
him,  with  the  bulk  of  readers.  He  moves  perpetually 
in  the  high  region  of  the  grand  and  the  pathetic.  One 
keynote  is  struck  at  the  beginning,  and  supported  to 
the  end  ;  nor  is  any  ornament  introduced,  but  what  is 
perfectly  concordant  with  the  general  tone  of  melody. 
The  events  recorded,  are  all  serious  and  grave  ;  the 
scenery  throughout,  wild  and  romantic.  The  extended 
heath  by  the  seashore  ;  the  mountains  shaded  with 
mist ;  the  torrent  rushing  through  a  solitary  valley  ; 
the  scattered  oaks,  and  the  tombs  of  warriors  over- 
grown with  moss  ;  all  produce  a  solemn  attention  in 
the  mind,  and  prepare  it  for  great  and  extraordinary 
jvents.  We  find  not  in  Ossian  an  imagination  that 
sports  itself,  and  dresses  out  gay  trifles  to  please  the 
tancy.  His  poetry,  more  perhaps  than  that  of  any 
other  writer,  deserves  to  be  styled,  The  poetry  of  the 
keart.  It  is  a  heart  penetrated  with  noble  sentiments 
*ad  with  sublime  and  tender  passions  ;  a  heart  thu 


103  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

glows,  and  kindles  the  fancy  ;  a  heart  that  is  full,  and 
pours  itself  forth.  Ossian  did  not  write,  like  modern 
poets,  to  please  readers  and  critics.  He  sung  from  the 
love  of  poetry  and  song.  His  delight  was  to  think  of 
the  heroes  among  whom  he  had  flourished  ;  to  recall 
the  affecting  incidents  of  his  life  ;  to  dwell  upon  his 
past  wars,  and  loves,  and  friendships  :  till,  as  he  ex- 
presses it  himself,  "  there  comes  a  voice  to  Ossian, 
and  awakes  his  soul.  It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are 
gone  ;  they  roll  before  me  with  all  their  deeds  ;"  and 
under  this  true  poetic  inspiration,  giving  vent  to  his 
genius,  no  wonder  we  should  so  often  hear,  and  ac- 
knowledge, in  his  strains,  the  powerful  and  ever-pleas- 
ing voice  of  nature. 

Arte,  natura  potentior  omni 

Est  Deus  in  nobis,  agitante  calescimus  illo. 

It  is  necessary  here  to  observe,  that  the  beauties  of 
Ossian's  writings  cannot  be  felt  by  those  who  have 
given  them  only  a  single  or  hasty  perusal.  His  man- 
ner is  so  different  from  that  of  the  poets  to  whom  we 
are  most  accustomed  ;  his  style  is  so  concise,  arid  so 
much  crowned  with  imagery ;  the  mind  is  kept  at  such 
a  stretch  in  accompanying  the  author ;  that  an  ordi- 
nary reader  is  at  first  apt  to  be  dazzled  and  fatigued, 
rather  than  pleased.  His  poems  require  to  be  taken 
up  at  intervals,  and  to  be  frequently  reviewed  ;  and 
then  it  is  impossible  but  his  beauties  must  open  to  every 
reader  who  is  capable  of  sensibility.  Those  who  have 
the  highest  degree  of  it  will  relish  them  the  most. 

As  Homer  is,  of  all  the  great  poets,  the  one  whose 
manner,  and  whose  times,  come  the  nearest  to  Ossian's, 
we  are  naturally  led  to  run  a  parallel  in  some  instances 
between  the  Greek  and  Celtic  bard.  For  though  Homer 
lived  more  than  a  thousand  years  before  Ossian,  it  is 
not  from  the  age  of  the  world,  but  from  the  state  of 
society,  that  we  are  to  judge  of  resembling  times.  The 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  109 

Greek  has,  in  several  points,  a  manifest  superiority. 
He  introduces  a  greater  variety  of  incidents  ;  he  pos- 
sesses a  larger  compass  of  ideas  ;  has  more  diversity 
in  his  characters ;  and  a  much  deeper  knowledge  of 
human  nature.  It  was  not  to  be  expected,  that  in  anj 
of  these  particulars  Ossian  could  equal  Homer.  For 
Homer  lived  in  a  country  where  society  was  much  far- 
ther advanced  ;  he  had  beheld  many  more  objects  ; 
cities  built  and  flourishing  ;  laws  instituted  ;  order,  dis- 
cipline, and  arts,  begun.  His  field  of  observation  was 
much  larger  and  more  splendid  :  his  knowledge,  of 
course,  more  extensive  ;  his  mind  also,  it  shall  be 
granted,  more  penetrating.  But  if  Ossian's  ideas  and 
objects  be  less  diversified  than  those  of  Homer,  they 
are  all,  however,  of  the  kind  fittest  for  poetry  :  the  bra- 
very and  generosity  of  heroes,  the  tenderness  of  lovers, 
the  attachment  of  friends,  parents,  and  children.  In  a 
rude  age  and  country,  though  the  events  that  happen 
be  few,  the  undissipated  mind  broods  over  them  more ; 
they  strike  the  imagination,  and  fire  the  passions,  in  a 
higher  degree  ;  and,  of  consequence,  become  happier 
materials  to  a  poetical  genius,  than  the  same  events 
when  scattered  through  the  wide  circle  of  more  varied 
action  and  cultivated  life. 

Homer  is  a  more  cheerful  and  sprightly  poet  than 
Ossian.  You  discern  in  him  all  the  Greek  vivacity  ; 
whereas  Ossian  uniformly  maintains  the  gravity  and 
solemnity  of  a  Celtic  hero.  This,  too,  is  in  a  great 
measure  to  be  accounted  for  from  the  different  situa- 
tions in  which  they  lived — partly  personal,  and  partly 
national.  Ossian  had  survived  all  his  friends,  and  was 
disposed  to  melancholy  by  the  incidents  of  his  life.  But, 
besides  this,  cheerfulness  is  one  of  the  many  blessings 
which  we  owe  to  formed  society.  The  solitary,  wild 
state,  is  always  a  serious  one.  Bating  the  sudden  and 
violent  bursts  of  mirth,  which  sometimes  break  forth  at 
10 


110  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

their  dances  and  feasts,  the  savage  American  tnbes 
have  been  noted  by  all  travellers  for  their  gravity  ana 
taciturnity.  Somewhat  of  this  taciturnity  may  be  also 
remarked  in  Ossian.  On  all  occasions  he  is  frugal  of 
his  words  ;  and  never  gives  you  more  of  an  image,  or 
a  description,  than  is  just  sufficient  to  place  it  before 
you  in  one  clear  point  of  view.  It  is  a  blaze  of  light- 
ning, which  flashes  and  vanishes.  Homer  is  more 
extended  in  his  descriptions,  and  fills  them  up  with  a 
greater  variety  of  circumstances.  Both  the  poets  are 
dramatic  ;  that  is,  they  introduce  their  personages  fre- 
quently speaking  before  us.  But  Ossiau  is  concise  and 
rapid  in  his  speeches,  as  he  is  in  every  other  thing. 
Homer,  with  the  Greek  vivacity,  had  also  some  portion 
of  the  Greek  loquacity.  His  speeches,  indeed,  are 
highly  characteristical ;  and  to  them  we  are  much  in- 
debted for  that  admirable  display  he  has  given  of  human 
nature.  Yet,  if  he  be  tedious  any  where,  it  is  in  these  : 
some  of  them  are  trifling,  and  some  of  them  plainly  un- 
seasonable. Both  poets  are  eminently  sublime  ;  but  a 
difference  may  be  remarked  in  the  species  of  their 
sublimity.  Homer's  sublimity  is  accompanied  with 
more  impetuosity  and  fire  ;  Ossian's  with  more  of  a 
solemn  and  awful  grandeur.  Homer  hurries  you  along ; 
Ossian  elevates,  and  fixes  you  in  astonishment.  Homer 
is  most  sublime  in  actions  and  battles  ;  Ossian  hi  de- 
scription and  sentiment.  In  the  pathetic,  Homer,  when 
he  chooses  to  exert  it,  has  great  power ;  but  Ossian 
exerts  that  power  much  oftener,  and  has  the  character 
of  tenderness  far  more  deeply  imprinted  on  his  works. 
No  poet  knew  better  how  to  seize  and  melt  the  heart. 
With  regard  to  dignity  of  sentiment,  the  pre-eminence 
must  clearly  be  given  to  Ossian.  This  is,  indeed,  a 
surprising  circumstance,  that  in  point  of  humanity, 
magnanimity,  virtuous  feelings  of  every  kind,  our  rude 
Celtic  bard  should  be  distinguished  to  such  a  degree, 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  Ill 

that  not  only  the  horoes  of  Homer,  but  even  those  of 
the  polite  and  refined  Virgil,  are  left  far  behind  by  those 
of  Ossian. 

After  these  general  observations  on  the  genius  and 
spirit  of  our  author,  I  now  proceed  to  a  nearer  view 
and  more  accurate  examination  of  his  works  ;  and  as 
Fingal  is  the  first  great  poem  in  this  collection,  it  is 
proper  to  begin  with  it.  To  refuse  the  title  of  an  epic 
poem  to  Fingal,  because  it  is  not,  in  every  little  partic- 
ular, exactly  conformable  to  the  practice  of  Homer 
and  Virgil,  were  the  mere  squeamishness  and  pedantry 
of  criticism.  Examined  even  according  to  Aristotle's 
rules,  it  will  be  found  to  have  all  the  essential  requisites 
of  a  true  and  regular  epic ;  and  to  have  several  of  them 
in  so  high  a  degree,  as  at  first  view  to  raise  our  aston- 
ishment on  finding  Ossian's  composition  so  agreeable 
to  rules  of  which  he  was  entirely  ignorant.  But  our 
astonishment  will  cease,  when  we  consider  from  what 
source  Aristotle  drew  those  rules.  Homer  knew  no 
more  of  the  laws  of  criticism  than  Ossian.  But,  guided 
by  nature,  he  composed  in  verse  a  regular  story,  found- 
ed on  heroic  actions,  which  all  posterity  admired. 
Aristotle,  with  great  sagacity  and  penetration,  traced 
the  causes  of  this  general  admiration.  He  observed 
what  it  was  in  Homer's  composition,  and  in  the  con- 
duct  of  his  story,  which  gave  it  such  power  to  please  ; 
from  this  observation  he  deduced  the  rules  which  poets 
ought  to  follow,  who  would  write  and  please  like 
Homer  ;  and  to  a  composition  formed  according  to 
such  rules,  he  gave  the  name  of  an  epic  poem.  Hence 
his  whole  system  arose.  Aristotle  studied  nature  in 
Homer.  Homer  and  Ossian  both  wrote  from  nature. 
No  wonder  that  among  all  the  three,  there  should  be 
such  agreement  and  conformity. 

The  fundamental  rules  delivered  by  Aristotle  con- 
cerning  an  epic  poem,  are  these  :  that  the  action,  which 


112  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

is  the  groundwork  of  the  poem,  should  be  one,  com- 
plete,  and  great ;  that  it  should  be  feigned,  not  merely 
historical ;  that  it  should  be  enlivened  with  characters 
and  manners,  and  heightened  by  the  marvellous. 

But,  before  entering  on  any  of  these,  it  may  perhaps 
be  asked,  what  is  the  moral  of  Fingal  ?  For,  according 
to  M.  Bossu,  an  epic  poem  is  no  other  than  an  allegory 
contrived  to  illustrate  some  moral  truth.  The  poet, 
says  this  critic,  must  begin  with  fixing  on  some  maxim 
or  instruction,  which  he  intends  to  inculcate  on  man- 
kind. He  next  forms  a  fable,  like  one  of  jEsop's, 
wholly  with  a  view  to  the  moral ;  and  having  thus  set- 
tled and  arranged  his  plan,  he  then  looks  into  tradition- 
ary history  for  names  and  incidents,  to  give  his  fable 
some  air  of  probability.  Never  did  a  more  frigid, 
pedantic  notion  enter  into  the  mind  of  a  critic.  We 
may  safely  pronounce,  that  he  who  should  compose  an 
epic  poem  after  this  manner,  who  should  first  lay  down 
a  moral  and  contrive  a  plan,  before  he  had  thought  of 
his  personages  and  actors,  might  deliver,  indeed,  very 
sound  instruction,  but  would  find  very  few  readers. 
There  cannot  be  the  least  doubt  that  the  first  object 
which  strikes  an  epic  poet,  which  fires  his  genius,  and 
gives  him  any  idea  of  his  work,  is  the  action  or  subject 
he  is  to  celebrate.  Hardly  is  there  any  tale,  any  sub- 
ject, a  poet  can  choose  for  such  a  work,  but  will  afford 
some  general  moral  instruction.  An  epic  poem  is,  by 
its  nature,  one  of  the  most  moral  of  all  poetical  compo- 
sitions :  but  its  moral  tendency  is  by  no  means  to  be 
limited  to  some  commonplace  maxim,  which  may  be 
gathered  from  the  story.  It  arises  from  the  admiration 
of  heroic  actions  which  such  a  composition  is  peculiarly 
calculated  to  produce ;  from  the  virtuous  emotions 
which  the  characters  and  incidents  raise,  whilst  we 
read  it ;  from  the  happy  impressions  which  all  the  parts 
separately,  as  well  as  the  whole  together,  leave  upou 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAK.  113 

the  mind.  However,  if  a  general  moral  be  still  insist- 
ed on,  Fingal  obviously  furnishes  one,  not  inferior  to 
that  of  any  other  poet,  viz  :  that  wisdom  and  bravery 
always  triumph  over  brutal  force  :  or  another,  nobler 
still :  that  the  most  complete  victory  over  an  enemy  is 
obtained  by  that  moderation  and  generosity  which  con- 
vert him  into  a  friend. 

The  unity  of  the  epic  action,  which  of  all  Aristotle's 
rules,  is  the  chief  and  most  material,  is  so  strictly  pre- 
served in  Fingal,  that  it  must  be  perceived  by  every 
reader.  It  is  a  more  complete  unity  than  what  arises 
from  relating  the  actions  of  one  man,  which  the  Greek 
critic  justly  censures  as  imperfect :  it  is  the  unity  of 
one  enterprise — the  deliverance  of  Ireland  from  the 
invasion  of  Swaran ;  an  enterprise  which  has  surely 
the  full  heroic  dignity.  All  the  incidents  recorded  bear 
a  constant  reference  to  one  end  ;  no  double  plot  is  car- 
ried on  ;  but  the  parts  unite  into  a  regular  whole  ;  and 
as  the  action  is  one  and  great,  so  it  is  an  entire  or 
complete  action.  For  we  find,  as  the  critic  farther 
requires,  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end ;  a  nodus, 
or  intrigue,  in  the  poem  ;  difficulties  occurring  through 
Cuthullin's  rashness  and  bad  success  ;  those  difficulties 
gradually  surmounted  ;  and  at  last,  the  work  conduct- 
ed to  that  happy  conclusion  which  is  held  essential  to 
epic  poetry.  Unity  is,  indeed,  observed  with  greater 
exactness  in  Fingal,  than  in  almost  any  other  epic 
composition.  For  not  only  is  unity  of  subject  main- 
tained, but  that  of  time  and  place  also.  The  autumn 
is  clearly  pointed  out  as  the  season  of  the  action  ;  and 
from  beginning  to  end  the  scene  is  never  shifted  from 
the  heath  of  Lena,  along  the  seashore.  The  duration 
of  the  action  in  Fingal,  is  much  shorter  than  in  the 
Iliad  or  ^Eneid  ;  but  sure  there  may  be  shorter  as  well 
longer  heroic  poems  ;  and  if  the  authority  of  Aristotle 
be  also  required  for  this,  he  says  expressly,  that  the 
10* 


114  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

epic  composition  is  indefinite  as  to  the  time  of  its  dura- 
tion.  Accordingly,  the  action  of  the  Iliad  lasts  only 
forty-seven  days,  whilst  that  of  the  ^Eneid  is  continued 
for  more  than  a  year. 

Throughout  the  whole  of  Fingal,  there  reigns  that 
grandeur  of  sentiment,  style,  and  imagery,  which  ought 
ever  to  distinguish  this  high  species  of  poetry.  The 
story  is  conducted  with  no  small  art.  The  poet  goes 
not  back  to  a  tedious  recital  of  the  beginning  of  the  war 
with  Swaran  ;  but  hastening  to  the  main  action,  he 
falls  in  exactly,  by  a  most  happy  coincidence  of  thought, 
with  the  rule  of  Horace  : 

Semper  ad  eventum  festinat,  et  in  medias  res, 

Non  secua  ac  notas,  auditorem  rapit — 

Nee  gemino  bellum  Trojanum  orditur  ab  ovo. 

De  Arte.  Poet. 

He  invokes  no  muse,  for  he  acknowledged  none  ; 
but  his  occasional  addresses  to  Malvina  have  a  finer 
effect  than  the  invocation  of  any  muse.  He  sets  out 
with  no  formal  proposition  of  his  subject ;  but  the  sub- 
ject naturally  and  easily  unfolds  itself;  the  poem  open- 
ing  in  an  animated  manner,  with  the  situation  of  Cu- 
thullin,  and  the  arrival  of  a  scout,  who  informs  him  of 
Swaran's  landing.  Mention  is  presently  made  of  Fin- 
gal,  and  of  the  expected  assistance  from  the  ships  of 
the  lonely  isle,  in  order  to  give  farther  light  to  the  sub- 
ject. For  the  poet  often  shows  his  address  in  gradually 
preparing  us  for  the  events  he  is  to  introduce  ;  and,  in 
particular,  the  preparation  for  the  appearance  of  Fin- 
gal,  the  previous  expectations  that  are  raised,  and  the 
extreme  magnificence,  fully  answering  these  expecta- 
tions, with  which  the  hero  is  at  length  presented  to  us, 
are  all  worked  up  with  such  skilful  conduct  as  would 
do  honor  to  any  poet  of  the  most  refined  times.  Homer's 
art  in  magnifying  the  character  of  Achilles,  has  been 
Universally  admired.  Ossian  certainly  shows  no  less 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW.  115 

art  in  aggrandizing  Fingal.  Nothing  could  be  more 
happily  imagined  for  this  purpose  than  the  whole  man- 
agement  of  the  last  battle,  wherein  Gaul,  the  son  of 
Morni,  had  besought  Fingal  to  retire,  and  to  leave  him 
and  his  other  chiefs  the  honor  of  the  day.  The  gene- 
rosity of  the  king  in  agreeing  to  this  proposal ;  the 
majesty  with  which  he  retreats  to  the  hill,  from  whence 
he  was  to  behold  the  engagement,  attended  by  his 
bards,  and  waving  the  lightning  of  his  sword  ;  his  per- 
ceiving the  chiefs  overpowered  by  numbers,  but,  frcm 
unwillingness  to  deprive  them  of  the  glory  of  victory 
by  coming  in  person  to  their  assistance,  first  sending 
Ullin,  the  bard,  to  animate  their  courage  ;  and  at  last, 
when  the  danger  becomes  more  pressing,  his  rising  in 
his  might,  and  interposing,  like  a  divinity,  to  decide  the 
doubtful  fate  of  the  day ;  are  all  circumstances  con- 
trived with  so  much  art,  as  plainly  discover  the  Celtic 
bards  to  have  been  not  unpractised  in  heroic  poetry. 

The  story  which  is  the  foundation  of  the  Iliad,  is  in 
itself  as  simple  as  that  of  Fingal.  A  quarrel  arises 
between  Achilles  and  Agamemnon  concerning  a  female 
slave  ;  on  which  Achilles,  apprehending  himself  to  be 
injured,  withdraws  his  assistance  from  the  rest  of  the 
Greeks.  The  Greeks  fall  into  great  distress,  and  be- 
seech him  to  be  reconciled  to  them.  He  refuses  to 
fight  for  them  in  person,  but  sends  his  friend  Patroclus  ; 
and  upon  his  being  slain,  goes  forth  to  revenge  his 
death,  and  kills  Hector.  The  subject  of  Fingal  is  this  : 
Swaran  comes  to  invade  Ireland  ;  Cuthullin,  the  guar- 
dian of  the  young  king,  had  applied  for  his  assistance  to 
Fingal,  who  reigned  in  the  opposite  coast  of  Scotland. 
But  before  Fingal's  arrival,  he  is  hurried  by  rash  coun- 
sel to  encounter  Swaran.  He  is  defeated  ;  he  retreats, 
and  desponds.  Fingal  arrives  in  this  conjuncture.  The 
battle  is  for  some  time  dubious  ;  but  in  the  end  he  con- 
quers Swaran ;  and  the  remembrance  of  Swaran'* 


116  CRITICAL  DISSERTATIOX 

being  the  brother  of  Agandecca,  who  had  once  saved 
his  life,  makes  him  dismiss  him  honorably.  Homer,  it 
is  true,  has  filled  up  his  story  with  a  much  greater 
variety  of  particulars  than  Ossian  ;  and  in  this  has 
shown  a  compass  of  invention  superior  to  that  of  the 
other  poet.  But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  though 
Homer  be  more  circumstantial,  his  incidents,  however, 
are  less  diversified  in  kind  than  those  of  Ossian.  War 
and  bloodshed  reign  throughout  the  Iliad  ;  and,  not- 
withstanding all  the  fertility  of  Homer's  invention, 
there  is  so  much  uniformity  in  his  subjects,  that  there 
are  few  readers,  who,  before  the  close,  are  not  tired 
with  perpetual  fighting.  Whereas  in  Ossian,  the  mind 
is  relieved  by  a  more  agreeable  diversity.  There  is  a 
finer  mixture  of  war  and  heroism,  with  love  and  friend, 
ship — of  martial,  with  tender  scenes,  than  is  to  be  met 
with,  perhaps,  in  any  other  poet.  The  episodes,  too, 
have  great  propriety — as  natural,  and  proper  to  that 
age  and  country :  consisting  of  the  songs  of  bards, 
which  are  known  to  have  been  the  great  entertainment 
of  the  Celtic  heroes  in  war,  as  well  as  in  peace.  These 
songs  are  not  introduced  at  random  ;  if  you  except  the 
episode  of  Duchommar  and  Morna,  in  the  first  book, 
which,  though  beautiful,  is  more  unartful  than  any  of 
the  rest,  they  have  always  some  particular  relation  to 
the  actor  who  is  interested,  or  to  the  events  which  are 
going  on  ;  and,  whilst  they  vary  the  scene,  they  pre- 
serve a  sufficient  connection  with  the  main  subject  by 
the  fitness  and  propriety  of  their  introduction. 

As  Fingal's  love  to  Agandecca  influences  some  cir- 
tumstances  of  the  poem,  particularly  the  honorable 
dismission  of  Swaran  at  the  end  ;  it  was  necessary  that 
we  should  be  let  into  this  part  of  the  hero's  story.  But 
as  it  lay  without  the  compass  of  the  present  action,  it 
could  be  regularly  introduced  nowhere  except  in  an 
episode.  Accordingly,  the  poet,  with  as-  much  pro- 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  117 

priety  as  if  Aristotle  himself  had  directed  the  plan,  has 
contrived  an  episode  for  this  purpose  in  the  song  of 
Carril,  at  the  beginning  of  the  third  book. 

The  conclusion  of  the  poem  is  strictly  according  to 
rule,  and  is  every  way  noble  and  pleasing.  The  re- 
conciliation  of  the  contending  heroes,  the  consolation 
of  Outhullin,  and  the  general  felicity  that  crowns  the 
action,  soothe  the  mind  in  a  very  agreeable  manner, 
and  form  that  passage  from  agitation  and  trouble,  to 
perfect  quiet  and  repose,  which  critics  require  as  the 
proper  termination  of  the  epic  work.  "  Thus  they 
passed  the  night  in  song,  and  brought  back  the  morn- 
ing with  joy.  Fingal  arose  on  the  heath  ;  and  shook 
his  glittering  spear  in  his  hand.  He  moved  first  to- 
wards  the  plains  of  Lena  ;  and  we  followed  like  a 
ridge  of  fire.  Spread  the  sail,  said  the  king  of  Morven, 
and  catch  the  winds  that  pour  from  Lena.  We  rose 
on  the  waves  with  songs  ;  and  rushed  with  joy  through 
the  foam  of  the  ocean."  So  much  for  the  unity  and 
general  conduct  of  the  epic  action  in  Fingal. 

With  regard  to  that  property  of  the  subject  which 
Aristotle  requires,  that  it  should  be  feigned,  not  histor- 
ical, he  must  not  be  understood  so  strictly  as  if  he 
meant  to  exclude  all  subjects  which  have  any  founda- 
tion in  truth.  For  such  exclusion  would  both  be  un- 
reasonable in  itself,  and  what  is  more,  would  be  con- 
trary to  the  practice  of  Homer,  who  is  known  to  havo 
founded  his  Iliad  on  historical  facts  concerning  the  war 
of  Troy,  which  was  famous  throughout  all  Greece. 
Aristotle  means  no  more  than  that  it  is  the  business 
of  a  poet  not  to  be  a  mere  annalist  of  facts,  but  to  em. 
hellish  truth  with  beautiful,  probable,  and  useful  fic- 
tions ;  to  copy  nature  as  he  himself  explains  it,  like 
painters,  who  preserve  a  likeness,  but  exhibit  their 
objects  more  grand  and  beautiful  than  they  aro  in 
reality.  That  Ossian  has  followed  this  course,  and 


118  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

building  upon  true  history,  has  sufficiently  adorned  it 
with  poetical  fiction  for  aggrandizing  his  characters 
and  facts,  will  not,  I  believe,  be  questioned  by  most 
readers.  At  the  same  time,  the  foundation  which  those 
facts  and  characters  had  in  truth,  and  the  share  which 
the  poet  had  himself  in  the  transactions  which  he  re- 
cords, must  be  considered  as  no  small  advantage  to  his 
work.  For  truth  makes  an  impression  on  the  mind  far 
beyond  any  fiction  ;  and  no  man,  let  his  imagination 
be  ever  so  strong,  relates  any  events  so  feelingly  as 
those  in  which  he  has  been  interested ;  paints  any 
scene  so  naturally  as  one  which  he  has  seen  ;  or  draws 
any  characters  in  such  strong  colors  as  those  which  he 
has  personally  known.  It  is  considered  as  an  advan- 
tage of  the  epic  subject  to  be  taken  from  a  period  so 
distant,  as,  by  being  involved  in  the  darkness  of  tradi- 
tion, may  give  license  to  fable.  Though  Ossian's  sul>- 
ject  may  at  first  view  appear  unfavorable  in  this 
respect,  as  being  taken  from  his  own  times,  yet,  when 
we  reflect  that  he  lived  to  an  extreme  old  age  ;  that 
he  relates  what  had  been  transacted  in  another  coun- 
try, at  the  distance  of  many  years,  and  after  all  that 
race  of  men  who  had  been  the  actors  were  gone  off 
the  stage  ;  we  shall  find  the  objection  in  a  great  meas- 
ure obviated.  In  so  rude  an  age,  when  no  written 
records  were  known,  when  tradition  was  loose,  and 
accuracy  of  any  kind  little  attended  to,  what  was  great 
and  heroic  in  one  generation,  easily  ripened  into  the 
marvellous  in  the  next. 

The  natural  representation  of  human  character  in 
an  epic  poem  is  highly  essential  to  its  merit ;  and,  in 
respect  of  this,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  Homer's  ex- 
celling all  the  heroic  poets  who  have  ever  wrote.  But 
though  Ossian  be  much  inferior  to  Homer  in  this  arti- 
cle, he  will  be  found  to  be  equal  a'i  least,  if  n^t  supe- 
rior to  Virgil;  and  has,  indeed,  given  all  the  display 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  119 

of  human  nature,  which  the  simple  occurrences  of  his 
limes  could  be  expected  to  furnish.  No  dead  uniform- 
ity of  character  prevails  in  Fingal ;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, the  principal  characters  are  not  only  clearly  dis- 
tinguished, but  sometimes  artfully  contrasted,  so  as  to 
illustrate  each  other.  Ossian's  heroes  are  like  Homer's, 
all  brave  ;  but  their  bravery,  like  those  of  Homer's 
too,  is  of  different  kinds.  For  instance  :  the  prudent, 
the  sedate,  the  modest  and  circumspect  Connal,  is  fine- 
ly opposed  to  the  presumptuous,  rash,  overbearing,  but 
gallant  and  generous  Calmar.  Calmar  hurries  Cu- 
thullin  into  action  by  his  temerity  ;  and  when  he  sees 
the  bad  effects  of  his  counsels,  he  will  not  survive  the 
disgrace.  Connal,  like  another  Ulysses,  attends  Cu- 
thullin  to  his  retreat,  counsels  and  comforts  him  under 
his  misfortune.  The  fierce,  the  proud,  and  the  high- 
spirited  Swaran,  is  admirably  contrasted  with  the  calm, 
the  moderate,  and  generous  Fingal.  The  character 
of  Oscar  is  a  favorite  one  throughout  the  whole  poems. 
The  amiable  warmth  of  the  young  warrior  ;  his  eager 
impetuosity  in  the  day  of  action  ;  his  passion  for 
fame  ;  his  submission  to  his  father  ;  his  tenderness  for 
Malvina ;  are  the  strokes  of  a  masterly  pencil  :  the 
strokes  are  few  ;  but  it  is  the  hand  of  nature,  and 
attracts  the  heart.  Ossian's  own  character,  the  old 
man,  the  hero,  and  the  bard,  all  in  one,  presents  to  us, 
through  the  whole  work,  a  most  respectable  and  vener- 
able figure,  which  we  always  contemplate  with  pleasure. 
Cuthullin  is  a  hero  of  the  highest  class  :  daring,  mag- 
nanimous, and  exquisitely  sensible  to  honor.  We 
become  attached  to  his  interest,  and  are  deeply  touch- 
ed with  his  distress  ;  and  after  the  admiration  raised 
for  him  in  the  first  part  of  the  poem,  it  is  a  strong 
proof  of  Ossian's  masterly  genius,  that  he  durst  adven- 
ture to  produce  to  us  another  hero,  compared  with 
whom,  even  the  great  Cuthullin  should  be  only  an  in- 


120  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

ferior  personage  ;  and  who  should  rise  as  far  above 
him,  as  Cuthullin  rises  above  the  rest. 

Here,  indeed,  in  the  character  and  description  of 
Fingal,  Ossian  triumphs  almost  unrivalled  ;  for  we 
may  boldly  defy  all  antiquity  to  show  us  any  hero 
equal  to  Fingal.  Homer's  Hector  possesses  several 
great  and  amiable  qualities  ;  but  Hector  is  a  secondary 
personage  in  the  Iliad,  not  the  hero  of  the  work.  We 
see  him  only  occasionally  ;  we  know  much  less  of  him 
than  we  do  of  Fingal ;  who,  not  only  in  this  epic  poem, 
but  in  Temora.  and  throughout  the  rest  of  Ossian's 
works,  is  presented  in  all  that  variety  of  lights,  which 
give  the  full  display  of  a  character.  And  though  Hector 
faithfully  discharges  his  duty  to  his  country,  his  friends, 
and  his  family,  he  is  tinctured,  however,  with  a  degree 
of  the  same  savage  ferocity  which  prevails  among  all 
the  Homeric  heroes :  for  we  find  him  insulting  over 
the  fallen  Patroclus  with  the  most  cruel  taunts,  and 
telling  him,  when  he  lies  in  the  agonies  of  death,  that 
Achilles  cannot  help  him  now ;  and  that  in  a  short 
time  his  body,  stripped  naked,  and  deprived  of  funeral 
honors,  shall  be  devoured  by  the  vultures.  Whereas, 
in  the  character  of  Fingal,  concur  almost  all  the  quali- 
ties that  can  ennoble  human  nature  ;  that  can  either 
make  us  admire  the  hero,  or  love  the  man.  He  is  not 
only  unconquerable  in  war,  but  he  makes  his  people 
happy  by  his  wisdom  in  the  days  of  peace.  He  is 
truly  the  father  of  his  people.  He  is  known  by  the 
epithet  of  "  Fingal  of  the  mildest  look  ;"  and  distin- 
guished on  every  occasion  by  humanity  and  generosity. 
He  is  merciful  to  his  foes ;  full  of  affection  to  his  chil- 
dren ;  full  of  concern  about  his  friends  ;  and  never 
mentions  Agandecca,  his  first  love,  without  the  utmost 
tenderness.  He  is  the  universal  protector  of  the  dis- 
tressed ;  "  None  ever  went  sad  from  Fingal." — "  O, 
Oscar !  bend  the  strong  in  arms  ;  but  spare  the  feeble 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  121 

hand.  Be  thou  a  stream  of  mighty  tides  against  the 
foes  of  thy  people  ;  but  like  the  gale  that  moves  the 
grass  to  those  who  ask  thine  aid.  So  Trenmor  lived ; 
such  Trathal  was  ;  and  such  has  Fingal  been.  My 
arm  was  the  support  of  the  injured  ;  the  weak  rested 
behind  the  lightning  of  my  steel."  These  were  the 
maxims  of  true  heroism,  to  which  he  formed  his  grand- 
son. His  fame  is  represented  as  everywhere  spread  ; 
the  greatest  heroes  acknowledge  his  superiority  •  his 
enemies  tremble  at  his  name  ;  and  the  highest  enco- 
mium that  can  be  bestowed  on  one  whom  the  poets  would 
most  exalt,  is  to  say,  that  his  soul  was  like  the  soul  of 
Fingal. 

To  do  justice  to  the  poet's  merit,  in  supporting  such 
a  character  as  this,  I  must  observe,  what  is  not  com- 
monly attended  to,  that  there  is  no  part  of  poetical 
execution  more  difficult,  than  to  draw  a  perfect  char- 
acter in  such  a  manner  as  to  render  it  distinct,  and 
affecting  to  the  mind.  Some  strokes  of  human  imper- 
fection and  frailty,  are  what  usually  give  us  the  most 
clear  view,  and  the  most  sensible  impression  of  a  char- 
acter ;  because  they  present  to  us  a  man,  such  as  we 
have  seen  ;  they  recall  known  features  of  human 
nature.  When  poets  attempt  to  go  beyond  this  range, 
and  describe  a  faultless  hero,  they  for  the  most  part  set 
before  us  a  sort  of  vague,  undistinguishable  character, 
such  as  the  imagination  cannot  lay  hold  of,  or  realize 
to  itself  as  the  object  of  affection.  We  know  how 
much  Virgil  has  failed  in  this  particular.  His  perfect 
hero,  JEneas,  is  an  unanimated,  insipid  personage, 
whom  we  may  pretend  to  admire,  but  whom  no  one 
can  heartily  love.  But  what  Virgil  has  failed  in, 
Ossian,  to  our  astonishment,  has  successfully  executed. 
His  Fingal,  though  exhibited  without  any  of  the  com- 
mon human  failings,  is,  nevertheless,  a  real  man ;  a 
character  which  touches  and  interests  every  reader. 
11 


122  RlTICAL   DISSERTATION 

To  this  it  has  much  contributed  that  the  poet  has  rep. 
resented  him  as  an  old  man  ;  and  by  this  has  gained 
the  advantage  of  throwing  around  him  a  great  many 
circumstances,  peculiar  to  that  age,  which  paint  him  to 
the  fancy  in  a  more  distinct  light.  He  is  surrounded 
with  his  family  ;  he  instructs  his  children  in  the  prin- 
ciples of  virtue  ;  he  is  narrative  of  his  past  exploits  ; 
he  is  venerable  with  the  gray  locks  of  age  ;  he  is  fre 
quently  disposed  to  moralize,  like  an  old  man,  on  hu- 
man vanity,  and  the  prospect  of  death.  There  is  more 
art,  at  least  more  felicity,  in  this,  than  may  at  first  be 
imagined.  For  youth  and  old  age  are  the  two  states 
of  human  life,  capable  of  being  placed  in  the  most  pic- 
turesque lights.  Middle  age  is  more  general  and 
vague  ;  and  has  fewer  circumstances  peculiar  to  the 
idea  of  it.  And  when  any  object  is  in  a  situation  that 
admits  it  to  be  rendered  particular,  and  to  be  clothed 
with  a  variety  of  circumstances,  it  always  stands  out 
more  clear  and  full  of  poetical  description. 

Besides  human  personages,  divine  or  supernatural 
agents  are  often  introduced  into  epic  poetry,  forming 
what  is  called  the  machinery  of  it ;  which  most  critics 
hold  to  be  an  essential  part.  The  marvellous,  it  must 
be  admitted,  has  always  a  great  charm  for  the  bulk  of 
readers.  It  gratifies  the  imagination,  and  affords  room 
for  striking  and  sublime  description.  No  wonder, 
therefore,  that  all  poets  should  have  a  strong  propensity 
towards  it.  But  I  must  observe,  that  nothing  is  more 
difficult  than  to  adjust  properly  the  marvellous  with  the 
probable.  If  a  poet  sacrifice  probability,  and  fill  his 
work  with  extravagant  supernatural  scenes,  he  spreads 
O"er  it  an  appearance  of  romance  and  childish  fiction  ; 
he  transports  his  readers  from  this  world  into  a  fantas- 
tic visionary  region  ;  and  loses  that  weight  and  dignity 
which  should  reign  in  epic  poetry.  No  work  from 
which  probability  is  altogether  banished,  can  make  a 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  123 

lasting  or  deep  impression.  Human  actions  and  man- 
ners  are  always  the  most  interesting  objects  which  can 
be  presented  to  a  human  mind.  All  machinery,  there- 
fore, is  faulty,  which  withdraws  these  too  much  from 
view,  or  obscures  them  under  a  cloud  of  incredible  fic- 
tions. Besides  being  temperately  employed,  machinery 
ought  always  to  have  some  foundation  in  popular  belief. 
A  poet  is  by  no  means  at  liberty  to  invent  what  system 
of  the  marvellous  he  pleases ;  he  must  avail  himself 
either  of  the  religious  faith,  or  the  superstitious  credu- 
lity of  the  country  wherein  he  lives  ;  so  as  to  give  an 
air  of  probability  to  events  which  are  most  contrary  to 
the  common  course  of  nature. 

In  these  respects,  Ossian  appears  to  me  to  have  oeen 
remarkably  happy.  He  has,  indeed,  followed  the  same 
course  with  Homer.  For  it  is  perfectly  absurd  to  ima- 
gine, as  some  critics  have  done,  that  Homer's  mythol- 
ogy was  invented  by  him  "  in  consequence  of  profound 
reflection  on  the  benefits  it  would  yield  to  poetry." 
Homer  was  no  such  refining  genius.  He  found  the 
traditionary  stories,  on  which  he  built  his  Iliad,  min- 
gled with  popular  legends  concerning  the  intervention 
of  the  gods  ;  and  he  adopted  these  because  they  amused 
the  fancy.  Ossian,  in  like  manner,  found  the  tales  of 
his  country  full  of  ghosts  and  spirits ;  it  is  likely  he 
believed  them  himself;  and  he  introduced  them,  be- 
cause they  gave  his  poems  that  solemn  and  marvellous 
cast  which  suited  his  genius.  This  was  the  only 
machinery  he  could  employ  with  propriety  ;  because 
it  was  the  only  intervention  of  supernatural  beings 
vhich  agreed  with  the  common  belief  of  the  country. 
It  was  happy  ;  because  it  did  not  interfere  in  the  least 
wilh  the  proper  display  of  human  characters  and  ac- 
tions ;  because  it  had  less  of  the  incredible  than  most 
other  kinds  of  poetical  machinery  ;  and  because  il 
served  to  diversify  the  scene,  and  to  heighten  the  sub. 


124  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

ject  by  an  awful  grandeur,  which  is  the  great  design 
of  machinery. 

As  Ossian's  mythology  is  p  iculiar  to  himself,  and 
makes  a  considerable  figure  in  his  other  poems,  as  well 
as  in  Fingal,  it  may  be  proper  to  make  some  observa- 
tions on  it,  independent  of  its  subserviency  to  epic  com- 
position. It  turns,  for  the  most  part,  on  the  appear- 
ances of  departed  spirits.  These,  consonantly  to  the 
notions  of  every  rude  age,  are  represented  not  as 
purely  immaterial,  but  as  thin  airy  forms,  which  can 
be  visible  or  invisible  at  pleasure ;  their  voice  is  fee- 
ble, their  arm  is  weak ;  but  they  are  endowed  with 
knowledge  more  than  human.  In  a  separate  state, 
they  retain  the  same  dispositions  which  animated  them 
in  this  life.  They  ride  on  the  wind  ;  they  bend  their 
airy  bows  ;  and  pursue  deer  formed  of  clouds.  The 
ghosts  of  departed  bards  continue  to  sing.  The  ghosts 
of  departed  heroes  frequent  the  fields  of  their  former 
fame.  "  They  rest  together  in  their  caves,  and  talk 
of  mortal  men.  Their  songs  are  of  other  worlds. 
They  come  sometimes  to  the  ear  of  rest,  and  raise  their 
feeble  voice."  All  this  presents  to  us  much  the  same 
set  of  ideas  concerning  spirits,  as  we  find  in  the  eleventh 
book  of  the  Odyssey,  where  Ulysses  visits  the  regions 
of  the  dead  ;  and  in  the  twenty-third  book  of  the  Iliad, 
the  ghost  of  Patroclus,  after  appearing  to  Achilles,  van- 
ishes precisely  like  one  of  Ossian's,  emitting  a  shrill, 
feeble  cry,  and  melting  away  like  smoke. 

But  though  Homer's  and  Ossian's  ideas  concerning 
ghosts  were  of  the  same  nature,  we  cannot  but  observe, 
that  Ossian's  ghosts  are  drawn  with  much  stronger  and 
livelier  colors  than  those  of  Homer.  Ossian  describes 
ghosts  with  all  the  particularity  of  one  who  had  seen 
and  conversed  with  them,  and  whose  imagination  was 
full  of  the. impression  they  had  left  upon  it.  He  calls 
up  those  awful  and  tremendous  ideas  'vhich  the 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN.  125 

Simulacra  modis  pallentia  miria 

are  fitted  to  raise  in  the  human  mind  ;  and  which,  in 
Shakspeare's  style,  "  harrow  up  the  soul."  Crugal's 
ghost,  in  particular,  in  the  beginning  of  the  second 
book  of  Fingal,  may  vie  with  any  appearance  of  this 
kind,  described  by  any  epic  or  tragic  poet  whatever. 
Most  poets  would  have  contented  themselves  with  tell- 
ing us,  that  he  resembled,  in  every  particular,  the  liv- 
ing Crugal ;  that  his  form  and  dress  were  the  same, 
only  his  face  more  pale  and  sad  ;  and  that  he  bore  the 
mark  of  the  wound  by  which  he  fell.  But  Ossian  sets 
before  our  eyes  a  spirit  from  the  invisible  world,  dis- 
tinguished by  all  those  features  which  a  strong,  aston- 
ished imagination  would  give  to  a  ghost.  "  A  dark- 
red  stream  of  fire  comes  down  from  the  hill.  Crugal 
sat  upon  the  beam  ;  he  that  lately  fell  by  the  hand  of 
Swaran,  striving  in  the  battle  of  heroes.  His  face  is 
like  the  beam  of  the  setting  moon.  His  robes  are  of 
the  cloud  of  the  hill.  His  eyes  are  like  two  decaying 
flames.  Dark  is  the  wound  of  his  breast. — The  stars 
dim  twinkled  through  his  form  ;  and  his  voice  was 
like  the  sound  of  a  distant  stream."  The  circum- 
stance of  the  stars  being  beheld  "  dim  twinkling 
through  his  form,"  is  wonderfully  picturesque,  and 
conveys  the  most  lively  impression  of  his  thin  and  sha- 
dowy substance.  The  attitude  in  which  he  is  afterward 
placed,  and  the  speech  put  into  his  mouth,  are  full  of 
that  solemn  and  awful  sublimity,  which  suits  the  sub- 
ject. "  Dim,  and  in  tears  he  stood,  and  he  stretched 
his  pale  hand  over  the  hero.  Faintly  he  raised  his 
feeble  voice,  like  the  gale  of  the  reedy  Lego. — My 
ghost,  O  Connal !  is  on  my  native  hills ;  but  my  corse 
is  on  the  sands  of  Ulla.  Thou  shall  never  talk  with 
Crugal,  or  find  his  lone  steps  in  the  heath.  I  am  li^ht 
as  the  blast  of  Cromla ;  and  I  move  like  the  shadow 
of  mist.  Connal,  son  of  Colgar  !  I  see  the  dark  cloud 
11* 


126  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

of  death  ;  it  hovers  over  the  plains  of  Lena.  The  sons 
of  green  Erin  shall  fall.  Remove  from  the  field  of 
ghosts. — Like  the  darkened  moon,  he  retired  in  the 
midst  of  the  whistling  blast." 

Several  other  appearances  of  spirits  might  be  point- 
ed out,  as  among  the  most  sublime  passages  of  Ossian's 
poetry.  The  circumstances  of  them  are  considerably 
diversified,  and  the  scenery  always  suited  to  the  occa- 
sion. "  Oscar  slowly  ascends  the  hill.  The  meteors 
of  night  set  on  the  heath  before  him.  A  distant  tor- 
rent faintly  roars.  Unfrequent  blasts  rush  through 
aged  oaks.  The  half-enlightened  moon  sinks  dim  and 
red  behind  her  hill.  Feeble  voices  are  heard  on  the 
heath.  Oscar  drew  his  sword — ."  Nothing  can  pre- 
pare the  fancy  more  happily  for  the  awful  scene  that 
is  to  follow.  "  Trenmor  came  from  his  hill  at  the 
voice  of  his  mighty  son.  A  cloud,  like  the  steed  of 
the  stranger,  supported  his  airy  limbs.  His  robe  is 
of  the  mist  of  Lano,  that  brings  death  to  the  people. 
His  sword  is  a  green  meteor,  half  extinguished.  His 
face  is  without  form,  and  dark.  He  sighed  thrice  over 
the  hero  ;  and  thrice  the  winds  of  the  night  roared 
around.  Many  were  his  words  to  Oscar. — He  slowly 
vanished,  like  a  mist  that  melts  on  the  sunny  hill." 
To  appearances  of  this  kind,  we  can  find  no  parallel 
among  the  Greek  or  Roman  poets.  They  bring  to 
mind  that  noble  description  in  the  book  of  Job :  "  ID 
thoughts  from  the  vision  of  the  night,  when  deep  sleep 
falleth  on  men,  fear  came  upon  me,  and  trembling, 
which  made  all  my  bones  to  shake.  Then  a  spiril 
passed  before  my  face  :  the  hair  of  my  flesh  stood  up. 
It  stood  still :  but  1  could  not  discern  the  form  thereof. 
\n  image  was  before  mine  eyes.  There  was  silence  ; 
and  I  heard  a  voice — Shall  mortal  man  be  more  just 
than  God  ?"  j 

As  Ossian's  supernatural  beings  are  described  with 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  127 

a  surprising  force  of  imagination,  so  they  are  intro- 
duced with  propriety.  We  have  only  three  ghosts  in 
Fingal :  that  of  Crugal,  which  comes  to  warn  the  host 
of  impending  destruction,  and  to  advise  them  to  save 
themselves  by  retreat ;  that  of  Evir-allen,  the  spouse 
of  Ossian,  which  calls  on  him  to  rise  and  rescue  their 
son  from  danger  ;  and  that  of  Agandecca,  which,  just 
before  the  last  engagement  with  Swaran,  moves  Fingal 
to  pity,  by  mourning  for  the  approaching  destruction 
of  her  kinsman  and  people.  In  the  other  poems,  ghosts 
sometimes  appear,  when  invoked,  to  foretell  futurity ; 
frequently,  according  to  the  notions  of  these  times, 
they  come  as  forerunners  of  misfortune  or  death,  to 
those  whom  they  visit ;  sometimes  they  inform  their 
Iriends  at  a  distance  of  their  own  death  ;  and  some- 
limes  they  are  introduced  to  heighten  the  scenery  on 
some  great  and  solemn  occasion.  "  A  hundred  oaks 
burn  to  the  wind  ;  and  faint  light  gleams  over  the 
heath.  The  ghosts  of  Ardvcn  pass  through  the  beam, 
and  show  their  dim  and  distant  forms.  Comala  is  half 
unseen  on  her  meteor ;  and  Hidallan  is  sullen  and 
dim." — "  The  awful  faces  of  other  times  looked  from 
Ihe  clouds  of  Crona." — "  Fercuth  !  I  saw  the  ghost  of 
night.  Silent  he  stood  on  that  bank  ;  his  robe  of  mist 
flew  on  the  wind.  I  could  behold  his  tears.  An  aged 
man  he  seemed,  and  full  of  thought." 

The  ghosts  of  strangers  mingle  not  with  those  of  the 
natives.  "  She  is  seen  :  but  not  like  the  daughters  of 
the  hill.  Her  robes  are  from  the  strangers'  land  ;  and 
she  is  still  alone."  When  the  ghost  of  one  whom  we 
had  formerly  known  is  introduced,  the  propriety  of  the 
living  character  is  still  preserved.  This  is  remarkable 
in  the  appearance  of  Calmar's  ghost,  in  the  poem  enti- 
tled, The  death  of  Cuthullin.  He  seems  to  forebode 
Cuthullin's  death,  and  to  beckon  him  to  his  cave. 
Cuthullin  reproaches  him  for  supposing  that  he  could 


123  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

be  intimidated  by  such  prognostics.  "  Why  dost  thou 
bend  thy  dark  eyes  on  me,  ghost  of  the  car-borne 
Calmar  ?  Wouldst  thou  frighten  me,  O  Matha's  son  ! 
from  the  battles  of  Cormac  ?  Thy  hand  was  not  feeble 
in  war  ;  neither  was  thy  voice  for  peace.  How  art 
thou  changed,  chief  of  Lara  !  if  thou  now  dost  advise 
to  fly !  Retire  thou  to  thy  cave  :  thou  art  not  Calmar's 
ghost ;  he  delighted  in  battle  ;  and  his  arm  was  like 
the  thunder  of  heaven."  Calmar  makes  no  return  to 
this  seeming  reproach :  but  "  he  retired  in  his  blast 
with  joy  ;  for  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  his  praise." 
This  is  precisely  the  ghost  of  Achilles  in  Homer ;  who, 
notwithstanding  all  the  dissatisfaction  he  expresses 
with  his  state  in  the  region  of  the  dead,  as  soon  as  he 
had  heard  his  son  Neoptolemus  praised  for  his  gallant 
behavior,  strode  away  with  silent  joy  to  rejoin  the  rest 
of  the  shades. 

It  is  a  great  advantage  of  Ossian's  mythology,  that 
it  is  not  local  and  temporary,  like  that  of  most  other 
ancient  poets ;  which  of  course  is  apt  to  seem  ridicu- 
lous, after  the  superstitions  have  passed  away  on  which 
it  is  founded.  Ossian's  mythology  is,  to  speak  so,  the 
mythology  of  human  nature  ;  for  it  is  founded  on  what 
has  been  the  popular  belief,  in  all  ages  and  countries, 
and  under  all  forms  of  religion,  concerning  the  appear, 
ances  of  departed  spirits.  Homer's  machinery  is  al- 
ways lively  and  amusing ;  but  far  from  being  always 
supported  with  proper  dignity.  The  indecent  squabbles 
among  his  gods  surely  do  no  honor  to  epic  poetry. 
Whereas  Ossian's  machinery  has  dignity  upon  all  oc- 
casions. It  is  indeed  a  dignity  of  the  dark  and  awful 
kind  ;  but  this  is  proper ;  because  coincident  with  the 
strain  and  spirit  of  the  poetry.  A  light  and  gay  my- 
thology, like  Homer's,  would  have  been  perfectly  un- 
suitable  to  the  subjects  on  which  Ossian's  genius  was 
employed.  But  though  his  machinery  be  always  sol- 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  129 

emn,  it  is  not,  however,  always  dreary  or  dismal ;  it 
is  enlivened,  as  much  as  the  subject  would  permit,  by 
those  pleasant  and  beautiful  appearances,  which  he 
sometimes  introduces,  of  the  spirits  of  the  hill.  These 
are  gentle  spirits :  descending  on  sunbeams,  fair  mov- 
ing on  the  plain  ;  their  forms  white  and  bright ;  their 
voices  sweet ;  and  their  visits  to  men  propitious.  The 
greatest  praise  that  can  be  given  to  the  beauty  of  a 
living  woman,  is  to  say,  "  She  is  fair  as  the  ghost  of 
the  hill,  when  it  moves  in  a  sunbeam  at  noon,  over  the 
silence  of  Morven."  "  The  hunter  shall  hear  my  voice 
from  his  booth.  He  shall  fear,  but  love  my  voice. 
For  sweet  shall  my  voice  be  for  my  friends  ;  for  pleas- 
ant were  they  to  me." 

Besides  ghosts,  or  the  spirits  of  departed  men,  we 
find  in  Ossian  some  instances  of  other  kinds  of  machin- 
ery. Spirits  of  a  superior  nature  to  ghosts  are  some- 
times alluded  to,  which  have  power  to  embroil  the 
deep  ;  to  call  forth  winds  and  storms,  and  pour  them 
on  the  land  of  the  stranger ;  to  overturn  forests,  and 
to  send  death  among  the  people.  We  have  prodigies 
too ;  a  shower  of  blood ;  and  when  some  disaster  is 
befalling  at  a  distance,  the  sound  of  death  is  heard  on 
the  strings  of  Ossian's  harp :  all  perfectly  consonant, 
not  only  to  the  peculiar  ideas  of  northern  nations,  but 
to  the  general  current  of  a  superstitious  imagination  in 
all  countries.  The  description  of  Fingal's  airy  hall, 
in  the  poem  called  Errathon,  and  of  the  ascent  of  Mal- 
vina  into  it,  deserves  particular  notice,  as  remarkably 
noble  and  magnificent.  But,  above  all,  the  engage- 
ment of  Fingal  with  the  spirit  of  Loda,  in  Carric-thura, 
cannot  be  mentioned  without  admiration.  I  forbear 
transcribing  the  passage,  as  it  must  have  drawn  the 
attention  of  every  one  who  has  read  the  works  of  Os- 
sian. The  undaunted  courage  of  Fingal,  opposed  to 
all  the  terrors  of  the  Scandinavian  god  ;  the  appear- 


130  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

ance  and  the  speech  of  that  awful  spirit ;  the  wound 
which  he  receives,  and  the  shriek  which  he  sends  forth, 
"  as,  rolled  into  himself,  he  rose  upon  the  wind  ;"  are 
full  of  the  most  amazing  and  terrible  majesty.  I  know 
no  passage  more  sublime  in  the  writings  of  any  unin- 
spired author.  The  fiction  is  calculated  to  aggrandize 
the  hero  ;  which  it  does  to  a  high  degree  :  nor  is  it  so 
unnatural  or  wild  a  fiction  as  might  at  first  be  thought. 
According  to  the  notions  of  those  times,  supernatural 
beings  were  material,  and,  consequently,  vulnerable. 
The  spirit  of  Loda  was  not  acknowledged  as  a  deity 
by  Fingal ;  he  did  not  worship  at  the  stone  of  his 
power  ;  he  plainly  considered  him  as  the  god  of  his 
enemies  only  ;  as  a  local  deity,  whose  dominion  ex- 
tended no  farther  than  to  the  regions  where  he  was 
worshipped ;  who  had,  therefore,  no  title  to  threaten 
him,  and  no  claim  to  his  submission.  We  know  there 
are  poetical  precedents  of  great  authority,  for  fictions 
fully  as  extravagant ;  and  if  Homer  be  forgiven  for 
making  Diomed  attack  and  wound  in  battle  the  gods 
whom  that  chief  himself  worshipped,  Ossian  surely  is 
pardonable  for  making  his  hero  superior  to  the  god  of 
a  foreign  territory. 

Notwithstanding  the  poetical  advantages  which  I 
have  ascribed  to  Ossian's  machinery,  I  acknowledge  it 
would  have  been  much  more  beautiful  and  perfect  had 
the  author  discovered  some  knowledge  of  a  Supreme 
Being.  Although  his  silence  on  this  head  has  been 
accounted  for  by  the  learned  and  ingenious  translator 
in  a  very  probable  manner,  yet  still  it  must  be  held  a 
considerable  disadvantage  to  the  poetry.  For  the  mosl 
august  and  lofty  ideas  that  can  embellish  poetry  are 
derived  from  the  belief  of  a  divine  administration  of 
the  universe ;  and  hence  the  invocation  of  a  Supreme 
Being,  or  at  least  of  some  superior  powers,  who  are 
conceived  as  presiding  over  human  affairs,  the  solein- 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.          131 

nities  of  religious  worship,  prayers  preferred,  and  as- 
sistance  implored  on  critical  occasions,  appear  with 
great  dignity  in  the  works  of  almost  all  poets,  as  chief 
ornaments  of  their  compositions.  The  absence  of  all 
&uch  religious  ideas  from  Ossian's  poetry  is  a  sensible 
blank  in  it ;  the  more  to  be  regretted,  as  we  can  easily 
imagine  what  an  illustrious  figure  tiny  would  have 
made  under  the  management  of  such  a  genius  as  his ; 
and  how  finely  they  would  have  been  adapted  to  many 
situations  which  occur  in  his  works. 

After  so  particular  an  examination  of  Fingal,  it  were 
needless  to  enter  into  as  full  a  discussion  of  the  conduct 
of  Temora,  the  other  epic  poem.  Many  of  the  same 
observations,  especially  with  regard  to  the  great  char- 
acteristics of  heroic  poetry,  apply  to  both.  The  high 
merit,  however,  of  Temora,  requires  that  we  should 
not  pass  it  by  without  some  remarks. 

The  scene  of  Temora,  as  of  Fingal,  is  laid  in  Ire- 
land ;  and  the  action  is  of  a  posterior  date.  The  sub- 
ject is,  an  expedition  of  the  hero  to  dethrone  and  pun- 
ish a  bloody  usurper,  and  to  restore  the  possession  of 
the  kingdom  to  the  posterity  of  the  lawful  prince  :  an 
undertaking  worthy  of  the  justice  and  heroism  of  the 
great  Fingal.  The  action  is  one,  and  complete.  The 
poem  opens  with  the  descent  of  Fingal  on  the  coast, 
and  the  consultation  held  among  the  chiefs  of  the  ene- 
my. The  murder  of  the  young  prince  Cormac,  which 
was  the  cause  of  the  war,  being  antecedent  to  the  epic 
action,  is  introduced  with  great  propriety  as  an  episode 
in  the  first  book.  In  the  progress  of  the  poem,  three 
battles  are  described,  which  rise  in  their  importance 
above  one  another ;  the  success  is  various,  and  the 
issue  for  some  time  doubtful ;  till  at  last,  Finga], 
brought  into  distress,  by  the  wound  of  his  great  general 
Gaul,  and  the  death  of  his  son  Fillan,  assumes  tne 
command  himself;  and,  having  slain  the  Irish  king 


132  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

in  single  combat,  restores  the  rightful  heir  to  his 
throne. 

Temora  has  perhaps  less  fire  than  the  other  epic 
poem  ;  but  in  return  it  has  more  variety,  more  tender- 
ness, and  more  magnificence.  The  reigning  idea,  so 
often  presented  to  us,  of  "  Fingal,  in  the  last  of  his 
fields,"  is  venerable  and  affecting;  nor  could  any  more 
noble  conclusion  be  thought  of,  than  the  aged  hero, 
after  so  many  successful  achievements,  taking  his 
leave  of  battles,  and,  with  all  the  solemnities  of  those 
times,  resigning  his  spear  to  his  son.  The  events  are 
less  crowded  in  Temora  than  in  Fingal ;  actions  and 
characters  are  more  particularly  displayed :  we  are 
let  into  the  transactions  of  both  hosts,  and  informed  of 
the  adventures  of  the  night  as  well  as  of  the  day.  The 
still,  pathetic,  and  the  romantic  scenery  of  several  of 
the  night  adventures,  so  remarkably  suited  to  Ossian's 
genius,  occasion  a  fine  diversity  in  the  poem  ;  and  are 
happily  contrasted  with  the  military  operations  of  the 
day. 

In  most  of  our  author's  poems,  the  horrors  of  war  are 
softened  by  intermixed  scenes  of  love  and  friendship. 
In  Fingal  these  are  introduced  as  episodes  :  in  Temora 
we  have  an  incident  of  this  nature  wrought  into  the 
body  of  the  piece,  in  the  adventure  of  Cathmor  and 
Sulmalla.  This  forms  one  of  the  most  conspicuous 
beauties  of  that  poem.  The  distress  of  Sulmalla,  dis- 
guised and  unknown  amongst  strangers,  her  tender  and 
anxious  concern  for  the  safety  of  Cathmor,  her  dream, 
and  her  melting  remembrance  of  the  land  of  her  fa- 
f.iers  ;  Cathmor's  emotion  when  he  first  discovers  her, 
his  struggles  to  conceal  and  suppress  his  passion,  lest 
it  should  unman  him  in  the  midst  of  war,  though  "  his 
soul  pcured  forth  in  secret,  when  he  beheld  her  fearful 
eye,"  and  the  last  interview  between  them,  when,  over- 
come by  her  tenderness,  he  lets  her  know  he  had  dis- 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  133 

covered  her,  and  confesses  his  passion ;  are  all  wrought 
up  with  the  most  exquisite  sensibility  and  delicacy. 

Besides  the  characters  which  appeared  in  Fingal, 
several  new  ones  are  here  introduced  ;  and  though,  as 
they  are  all  the  characters  of  warriors,  bravery  is  the 
predominant  feature,  they  are  nevertheless  diversified 
in  a  sensible  and  striking  manner.  Foldath,  for  in- 
stance,  the  general  of  Cathmor,  exhibits  the  perfect 
picture  of  a  savage  chieftain  ;  bold  and  daring,  but 
presumptuous,  cruel,  and  overbearing.  He  is  distin- 
guished, on  his  first  appearance,  as  the  friend  of  the 
tyrant  Cairbar,  "  His  stride  is  haughty ;  his  red  eye 
rolls  in  wrath."  In  his  person  and  whole  deportment 
he  is  contrasted  with  the  mild  and  wise  Hidalla,  anoth- 
er leader  of  the  same  army,  on  whose  humanity  and 
gentleness  he  looks  with  great  contempt.  He  profes- 
sedly delights  in  strife  and  blood.  He  insults  over  the 
fallen.  He  is  imperious  in  his  counsels,  and  factious 
when  they  are  not  followed.  He  is  unrelenting  in  all 
his  schemes  of  revenge,  even  to  the  length  of  denying 
the  funeral  song  to  the  dead  ;  which,  from  the  injury 
thereby  done  to  their  ghosts,  was  in  those  days  con- 
sidered as  the  greatest  barbarity.  Fierce  to  the  last, 
he  comforts  himself  in  his  dying  moments  with  think- 
ing that  his  ghost  shall  often  leave  its  blast  to  rejoice 
over  the  graves  of  those  he  had  slain.  Yet  Ossian, 
ever  prone  to  the  pathetic,  has  contrived  to  throw  into 
his  account  of  the  death,  even  of  this  man,  some  tender 
circumstances,  by  the  moving  description  of  his  daugh- 
ter Dardulena,  the  last  of  his  race. 

The  character  of  Foldath  tends  much  to  exalt  that 
of  Cathmor,  the  chief  commander,  which  is  distin- 
guished by  the  most  humane  virtues.  He  abhors  all 
fraud  and  cruelty,  is  famous  for  his  hospitality  to 
strangers  ;  open  to  every  generous  sentiment,  and  to 
every  soft  and  compassionate  feeling.  He  is  so  amia- 
12 


134  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

ble  as  to  divide  the  reader's  attachment  between  him 
and  the  hero  of  the  poem ;  though  our  author  has  art- 
fully managed  it  so  as  to  make  Cathmor  himself  indi- 
rectly acknowledge  Fingal's  superiority,  and  to  appear 
somewhat  apprehensive  of  the  event,  after  the  death 
of  Fillan,  which  he  knew  would  call  forth  Fingal  in 
all  his  might.  It  is  very  remarkable,  that  although 
Ossian  has  introduced  into  his  poems  three  complete 
heroes,  Cuthullin,  Cathmor,  and  Fingal,  he  has,  how- 
ever, sensibly  distinguished  each  of  their  characters  ; 
Cuthullin  is  particularly  honorable  ;  Cathmor  particu- 
larly amiable ;  Fingal  wise  and  great,  retaining  an 
ascendant  peculiar  to  himself  in  whatever  light  he  is 
viewed. 

But  the  favorite  figure  in  Temora,  and  the  one  most 
highly  finished,  is  Fillan.  His  character  is  of  that 
sort  for  which  Ossian  shows  a  particular  fondness  ;  an 
eager,  fervent,  young  warrior,  fired  with  all  the  impa- 
tient enthusiasm  for  military  glory  peculiar  to  that 
time  of  life.  He  had  sketched  this  in  the  description 
of  his  own  son  Oscar ;  but  as  he  has  extended  it  more 
fully  in  Fillan,  and  as  the  character  is  so  consonant  to 
the  epic  strain,  though,  as  far  as  I  remember,  not 
placed  in  such  a  conspicuous  light  by  any  other  epic 
poet,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  attend  a  little  to  Ossian's 
management  of  it  in  this  instance. 

Fillan  was  the  youngest  of  all  the  sons  of  Fingal ; 
younger,  it  is  plain,  than  his  nephew  Oscar,  by  whose 
fame  and  great  deeds  in  war  we  may  naturally  suppose 
his  ambition  to  have  been  highly  stimulated.  Withal, 
as  he  is  younger,  he  is  described  as  more  rash  and 
fiery.  His  first  appearance  is  soon  after  Oscar's 
death,  when  he  was  employed  to  watch  the  motions  of 
the  foe  by  night.  In  a  conversation  with  his  brother 
Ossian,  on  that  occasion,  we  learn  that  it  was  not  long 
since  he  began  to  lift  the  spear.  "  Few  are  the  marks 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSUN.  135 

of  my  sword  in  battle  ;  but  my  soul  is  fiie."  He  is 
with  some  difficulty  restrained  by  Ossian  from  going 
to  attack  the  enemy  ;  and  complains  to  him,  that  his 
father  had  never  allowed  him  any  opportunity  of  sig- 
nalizing his  valor.  "  The  king  hath  not  remarked  my 
sword ;  I  go  forth  with  the  crowd  ;  I  return  without 
my  fame."  Soon  after,  when  Fingal,  according  to 
custom,  was  to  appoint  one  of  his  chiefs  to  .command 
the  army,  and  each  was  standing  forth,  and  putting  in 
nis  claim  to  this  honor,  Fillan  is  presented  in  the  fol- 
lowing most  picturesque  and  natural  attitude  :  "  On  his 
spear  stood  the  Son  of  Clatho,  in  the  wandering  of  his 
locks.  Thrice  he  raised  his  eyes  to  Fingal ;  his  voice 
thrice  failed  him  as  he  spoke.  Fillan  could  not  boast 
of  battles  ;  at  once  he  strode  away.  Bent  over  a  dis- 
tant stream  he  stood  ;  the  tear  hung  in  his  eye.  He 
struck,  at  times,  the  thistle's  head  with  his  inverted 
spear."  No  less  natural  and  beautiful  is  the  descrip- 
tion of  Fingal's  paternal  emotion  on  this  occasion. 
"  Nor  is  he  unseen  of  Fingal.  Sidelong  he  beheld  his 
son.  He  beheld  him  with  bursting  joy.  He  hid  the 
big  tear  with  his  locks,  and  turned  amidst  his  crowded 
soul."  The  command,  for  that  day,  being  given  to 
Gaul,  Fillan  rushes  amidst  the  thickest  of  the  foe,  saves 
Gaul's  life,  who  is  wounded  by  a  random  arrow,  and 
distinguishes  himself  so  in  battle,  that  "  the  days  of  old 
return  on  Fingal's  mind,  as  he  beholds  the  renown  of 
his  son.  As  the  sun  rejoices  from  the  cloud,  over  the 
tree  his  beams  have  raised,  whilst  it  shakes  its  lonely 
head  on  the  heath,  so  joyful  is  the  king  over  Fillan." 
Sedate,  however,  and  wise,  he  mixes  the  praise  which 
he  bestows  on  him  with  some  reprehension  of  his  rash- 
ness. "  My  son,  I  saw  thy  deeds,  and  my  soul  was 
glad.  Thou  art  brave,  son  of  Clatho,  but  headlong  in 
the  strife.  So  did  not  Fingal  advance,  though  he 
never  feared  a  foe.  Let  thy  people  be  a  ridge  behind 


136  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

thee  ;  they  are  thy  strength  in  the  field.  Then  shalt 
thou  be  long  renowned,  and  behold  the  tombs  of  thy 
fathers." 

On  the  next  day,  the  greatest  and  the  last  of  Fillan's 
life,  the  charge  is  committed  to  him  of  leading  on  the 
host  to  battle.  Fingal's  speech  to  his  troops  on  this 
occasion  is  full  of  noble  sentiment ;  and,  where  he  re- 
commends his  son  to  their  care,  extremely  touching. 
"  A  young  beam  is  before  you  :  few  are  his  steps  to 
war.  They  are  few,  but  he  is  valiant ;  defend  my  dark- 
haired  son.  Bring  him  back  with  joy  ;  hereafter  he 
may  stand  alone.  His  form  is  like  his  fathers  ;  his 
soul  is  a  flame  of  their  fire."  When  the  battle  begins, 
the  poet  puts  forth  his  strength  to  describe  the  exploits 
of  the  young  hero  ;  who,  at  last  encountering  andkill- 
ing  with  his  own  hand  Foldath,  the  opposite  general, 
attains  the  pinnacle  of  glory.  Tn  what  follows,  when 
the  fate  of  Fillan  is  drawn  near,  Ossian,  if  anywhere, 
excels  himself.  Foldath  being  slain,  and  a  general 
rout  begun,  there  was  no  resource  left  to  the  enemy 
but  in  the  great  Cathmore  himself,  who  in  this  extremity 
descends  from  the  hill,  where,  according  to  the  custom 
of  those  princes,  he  surveyed  the  battle.  Observe 
how  this  critical  event  is  wrought  up  by  the  poet. 
"  Wide-spreading  over  echoing  Lubar,  the  flight  of 
Bolga  is  rolled  along.  Fillan  hung  forward  on  their 
steps,  and  strewed  the  heath  with  dead.  Fingal  re- 
joiced over  his  son. — Blue-shielded  Cathmor  rose. — 
Son  of  Alpin,  bring  the  harp  !  Give  Fillan's  praise 
to  the  wind  :  raise  high  his  praise  in  my  hall,  while 
yet  he  shines  in  war.  Leave,  blue-eyed  Clatho  !  leave 
thy  nail  ;  behold  that  early  beam  of  thine  !  The  host 
is  withered  in  its  course.  No  farther  look — it  is  dark 
— light  trembling  from  the  harp,  strike,  virgins!  strike 
the  sound."  The  sudden  interruption  and  suspense,  of 
the  narration  on  Cathmor's  rising  from  his  hill,  the 


THE  POEMS  OF  OSSTAN.  137 

abrupt  bursting  into  the  praise  of  Fillan,  and  the  pas- 
sionate apostrophe  to  his  mother  Clatho,  are  admirable 
efforts  of  poetical  art,  in  order  to  interest  us  in  Fillan's 
danger  ;  and  the  whole  if,  heightened  by  the  immediate 
following  simile,  one  of  the  most  magnificent  and  sub- 
lime that  is  to  be  met  with  in  any  poet,  and  which,  if 
it  had  been  found  in  Homer,  would  have  been  the  fre- 
quent subject  of  admiration  to  critics  :  "  Fillan  is  like 
a  spirit  of  heaven,  that  descends  from  the  skirt  of  his 
blast.  The  troubled  ocean  feels  his  steps  as  he  strides 
from  wave  to  wave.  His  path  kindles  behind  him  ; 
islands  shake  their  heads  on  the  heaving  seas." 

But  the  poet's  art  is  not  yet  exhausted.  The  fall 
of  this  noble  young  warrior,  or,  in  Ossian's  style,  the 
extinction  of  this  beam  of  heaven,  could  not  be  ren. 
dered  too  interesting  and  affecting.  Our  attention  is 
naturally  drawn  towards  Fingal.  He  beholds  from 
his  hill  the  rising  of  Cathmor,  and  the  danger  of  his 
son.  But  what  shall  he  do  ?  "  Shall  Fingal  rise  to 
his  aid,  and  take  the  sword  of  Luno  ?  What  then 
shall  become  of  thy  fame,  son  of  white-bosomed  Clatho  ? 
Turn  not  thine  eyes  from  Fingal,  daughter  of  Inistore  ! 
I  shall  not  quench  thy  early  beam.  No  cloud  of  mine 
shall  rise,  my  son,  upon  thy  soul  of  fire."  Struggling 
between  concern  for  the  fame,  and  fear  for  the  safety 
of  his  son,  he  withdraws  from  the  sight  of  the  engage- 
ment,  and  despatches  Ossian  in  haste  to  the  field, 
with  this  affectionate  and  delicate  injunction  :  "  Father 
of  Oscar !"  addressing  him  by  a  title  which  on  this 
occasion  has  the  highest  propriety  :  "  Father  of  Oscar  ! 
lift  the  spear,  defend  the  young  in  arms.  But  conceal 
thy  steps  from  Fillan's  eyes.  He  must  not  know  that 
I  doubt  his  steel."  Ossian  arrived  too  late.  But  un- 
willing to  describe  Fillan  vanquished,  the  poet  sup- 
presses all  the  circumstances  of  the  combat  with  Cath- 
mor ;  and  only  shows  us  the  dying  hero.  We  see  him 


138  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

animated  to  the  end  with  the  same  martial  and  ardent 
spirit ;  breathing  his  last  in  bitter  regret  for  being  so 
early  cut  off  from  the  field  of  glory.  "  Ossian,  lay 
me  in  that  hollow  rock.  Raise  no  stone  above  me, 
lest  one  should  ask  about  my  fame.  I  am  fallen  in  the 
first  of  my  fields ;  fallen  without  renown.  Let  thy 
voice  alone  send  joy  to  my  flying  soul.  Why  should 
the  bard  know  where  dwells  the  early-fallen  Fillan  ?" 
He  who,  after  tracing  the  circumstances  of  this  story, 
shall  deny  that  our  bard  is  possessed  of  high  sentiment 
and  high  art,  must  be  strangely  prejudiced  indeed. 
Let  him  read  the  story  of  Pallas  in  Virgil,  which  is  of 
a  similar  kind  ;  and  after  all  the  praise  he  may  justly 
bestow  on  the  elegant  and  finished  description  of  that 
amiable  author,  let  him  say  which  of  the  two  poets 
unfolds  most  of  the  human  soul.  I  waive  insisting 
on  any  more  of  the  particulars  in  Temora  ;  as  my 
aim  is  rather  to  lead  the  reader  into  the  genius  and 
spirit  of  Ossian 's.  poetry,  than  to  dwell  on  all  his 
beauties. 

The  judgment  and  art  discovered  in  conducting 
•works  of  such  length  as  Fingal  and  Temora,  distin- 
guish them  from  the  other  poems  in  this  collection. 
The  smaller  pieces,  however,  contain  particular  beau- 
lies,  no  less  eminent.  They  are  historical  poems, 
generally  of  the  elegiac  kind  ;  and  plainly  discover 
themselves  to  be  the  work  of  the  same  author.  One 
consistent  face  of  manners  is  everywhere  presented 
to  us  ;  one  spirit  of  poetry  reigns  j  the  masterly  hand 
of  Ossian  appears  throughout  ;  the  same  rapid  and 
animated  style  ;  the  same  strong  coloring  of  imagina- 
tion, and  the  same  glowing  sensibility  of  heart.  Be- 
sides the  unity  which  belongs  to  the  compositions  of 
one  man,  there  is  moreover  a  certain  unity  of  subject, 
which  very  happily  connects  all  these  poems.  They 
form  the  poetical  history  of  the  age  of  Fingal.  The 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  139 

same  race  of  heroes  whom  we  had  met  with  in  the 
greater  poems,  Cuthullin,  Oscar,  Connar,  and  Gaul, 
return  again  upon  the  stage  ;  and  Fingal  himself  is 
always  the  principal  figure,  presented  on  every  occa- 
sion, with  equal  magnificence,  nay,  rising  upon  us  to 
the  last.  The  circumstances  of  Ossian's  old  age  and 
blindness,  his  surviving  all  his  friends,  and  his  relating 
their  great  exploits  to  Malvina,  the  spouse  or  mistress 
of  his  beloved  son  Oscar,  furnish  the  finest  poetical 
situations  that  fancy  could  devise  for  that  tender  pa- 
thetic which  reigns  in  Ossian's  poetry. 

On  each  of  these  poems  there  might  be  room  for 
separate  observations,  with  regard  to  the  conduct  and 
dispositions  of  the  incidents,  as  well  as  to  the  beauty 
of  the  descriptions  and  sentiments.  Carthon  is  a  regu- 
lar and  highly  finished  piece.  The  main  story  is  very 
properly  introduced  by  Clessamore's  relation  of  the 
adventure  of  his  youth ;  and  this  introduction  is  finely 
heightened  by  Fingal's  song  of  mourning  over  Moina  ; 
in  which  Ossian,  ever  fond  of  doing  honor  to  his  father, 
has  contrived  to  distinguish  him  for  being  an  eminent 
poet,  as  well  as  warrior.  Fingal's  song  upon  this  oc- 
casion, when  "  his  thousand  bards  leaned  forwards  from 
their  seats,  to  hear  the  voice  of  the  king,"  is  inferior  to 
no  passage  in  the  whole  book  ;  and  with  great  judg- 
ment put  in  his  mouth,  as  the  seriousness,  no  less  than 
the  sublimity  of  the  strain,  is  peculiarly  suited  to  the 
hero's  character.  In  Darthula  are  assembled  almost 
all  the  tender  images  that  can  touch  the  heart  of  man , 
friendship,  love,  the  affections  of  parents,  sons,  and 
brothers,  the  distress  of  the  aged,  and  the  unavailing 
bravery  of  the  young.  The  beautiful  address  to  the 
moon,  with  which  the  poem  opens,  and  the  transitiou 
from  thence  to  the  subject,  most  happily  prepare  the 
mind  for  that  train  of  affecting  events  that  is  to  follow. 
The  story  is  regular,  dramatic,  interesting  to  the  last. 


140  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

He  who  can  read  it  without  emotion  may  congratulate 
himself,  if  he  pleases,  upon  being  completely  armed 
against  sympathetic  sorrow.  As  Fingal  had  no  occa- 
sion of  appearing  in  the  action  of  this  poem,  Ossian 
makes  a  very  artful  transition  from  his  narration,  to 
what  was  passing  in  the  halls  of  Selma.  The  sound 
heard  there  on  the  strings  of  his  harp,  the  concern 
which  Fingal  shows  on  hearing  it,  and  the  invocation 
of  the  ghosts  of  their  fathers,  to  receive  the  heroes  fall- 
ing in  a  distant  land,  are  introduced  with  great  beauty 
of  imagination  to  increase  the  solemnity,  and  to  diver- 
sify the  scenery  of  the  poem. 

Carric-thura  is  full  of  the  most  sublime  dignity  ;  and 
has  this  advantage,  of  being  more  cheerful  in  the  sub- 
ject, and  more  happy  in  the  catastrophe,  than  most  of 
the  other  poems :  though  tempered  at  the  same  time 
with  episodes  in  that  strain  of  tender  melancholy  which 
seems  to  have  been  the  great  delight  of  Ossian  and  the 
bards  of  his  age.  Lathmon  is  peculiarly  distinguished 
by  high  generosity  of  sentiment.  This  is  carried  so 
far,  particularly  in  the  refusal  of  Gaul,  on  one  side,  to 
take  the  advantage  of  a  sleeping  foe  ;  and  of  Lathmon, 
on  the  other,  to  overpower  by  numbers  the  two  young 
warriors,  as  to  recall  into  one's  mind. the  manners  of 
chivalry  ;  some  resemblance  to  which  may  perhaps  be 
suggested  by  other  incidents  in  this  collection  of  poems. 
Chivalry,  however,  took  rise  in  an  age  and  country  too 
remote  from  those  of  Ossian,  to  admit  the  suspicion 
that  the  one  could  have  borrowed  any  thing  from  thn 
other.  So  far  as  chivalry  had  any  real  existence,  the 
same  military  enthusiasm  which  gave  birth  to  it  in  the 
feudal  times,  might,  in  the  days  of  Ossian,  that  is,  in 
the  infancy  of  a  rising  state,  through  the  operation  of 
the  same  cause,  very  naturally  produce  effects  of  the 
same  kind  on  the  minds  and  manners  of  men.  So  far 
us  chivalry  was  an  ideal  system,  existing  only  in  ro- 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  141 

mance,  it  will  not  be  thought  surprising,  when  we  reflect 
on  the  account  before  given  of  the  Celtic  bards,  that 
this  imaginary  refinement  of  heroic  manners  should  be 
found  among  them,  as  much,  at  least,  as  among  the 
Troubadors,  or  strolling  Proven9al  bards,  in  the  10th 
or  llth  century;  whose  songs,  it  is  said,  first  gave 
rise  to  those  romantic  ideas  of  heroism,  which  for  so 
long  a  time  enchanted  Europe.  Ossian's  heroes  have 
all  the  gallantry  and  generosity  of  those  fabulous 
knights,  without  their  extravagance ;  and  his  love 
scenes  have  native  tenderness,  without  any  mixture  of 
those  forced  and  unnatural  conceits  which  abound  in 
the  old  romances.  The  adventures  related  by  our 
poet  which  resemble  the  most  those  of  romance,  con- 
cern women  who  follow  their  lovers  to  war  disguised 
in  the  armor  of  men ;  and  these  are  so  managed  as 
to  produce,  in  the  discovery,  several  of  the  most  inter- 
esting situations  ;  one  beautiful  instance  of  which  may 
be  seen  in  Carric-thura,  and  another  in  Calthon  and 
Colmal. 

Oithona  presents  a  situation  of  a  different  nature. 
In  the  absence  of  her  lover  Gaul,  she  had  been  carried 
off' and  ravished  by  Dunrommath.  Gaul  discovers  the 
place  where  she  is  kept  concealed,  and  comes  to 
revenge  her.  The  meeting  of  the  two  lovers,  the  sen- 
timents and  the  behavior  of  Oithona  on  that  occasion, 
are  described  with  such  tender  and  exquisite  propriety, 
as  does  the  greatest  honor  both  to  the  heart  and  to  the 
delicacy  of  our  author ;  and  would  have  been  admired 
in  any  poet  of  the  most  refined  age.  The  conduct  of 
Croma  must  strike  eveiy  reader  as  remarkably  judi- 
cious and  beautiful.  We  are  to  be  prepared  for  the 
death  of  Malvina,  which  is  related  in  the  succeeding 
poem.  She  is  therefore  introduced  in  person;  "she 
lias  heard  a  voice  in  her  dream  ;  she  feels  the  flutter, 
ing  of  her  soul :"  and  in  a  most  moving  lamentation 


142  CSITICAL  DISSERTATION 

addressed  to  her  beloved  Oscar,  she  sings  her  own 
death-song.  Nothing  could  be  calculated  with  more 
art  to  sooth  and  comfort  her  than  the  story  which  Os- 
sian  relates.  In  the  young  and  brave  Fovargormo, 
another  Oscar  is  introduced :  his  praises  are  sung ; 
and  the  happiness  is  set  before  her  of  those  who  die  in 
their  youth  "when  their  renown  is  around  them  ;  before 
the  feeble  behold  them  in  the  hall,  and  smile  at  their 
trembling  hands." 

But  nowhere  does  Ossian's  genius  appear  to  greater 
advantage,  than  in  Berrathon,  which  is  reckoned  tho 
conclusion  of  his  songs,  '  The  last  sound  of  the  voice 
of  Cona.' 

Quails  olor  noto  positurus  littore  vitam, 
Ingemit,  et  mcestis  mulcens  concentibus  auras 
Praesago  qusEiitur  venientia  funera  cantu. 

The  whole  train  of  ideas  is  admirably  suited  to  the 
subject.  Every  thing  is  full  of  that  invisible  world, 
into  which  the  aged  bard  believes  himself  now  ready  to 
enter.  The  airy  hall  of  Fingal  presents  itself  to  hia 
view  ;  "  he  sees  the  cloud  that  shall  receive  his  ghost ; 
he  beholds  the  mist  that  shall  form  his  robe  when  he 
appears  on  his  hill ;"  and  all  the  natural  objects  around 
him  seem  to  carry  the  presages  of  death.  "The  thistle 
shakes  its  beard  to  the  wind.  The  flower  hangs  ita 
heavy  head  ;  it  seems  to  say,  I  am  covered  with  the 
drops  of  heaven ;  the  time  of  my  departure  is  near, 
and  the  blast  that  shall  scatter  my  leaves."  Malvina's 
death  is  hinted  to  him  in  the  most  delicate  manner  by 
the  son  of  Alpin.  His  lamentation  over  her,  her  apo- 
theosis, or  ascent  to  the  habitation  of  heroes,  and  the 
introduction  to  the  story  which  follows  from  the  men 
tion  which  Ossian  supposes  the  father  of  Malvina  to 
make  of  him  in  the  hall  of  Fingal,  are  all  in  the  highest 
spirit  of  poetry.  "  And  dost  thou  remember  Ossian,  O 
Toscar,  son  of  Conloch  ?  The  battles  of  our  youth 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  143 

were  man/j  our  swords  went  together  to  the  field." 
Nothing  could  be  more  proper  than  to  end  his  songs 
with  recording  an  exploit  of  the  father  of  that  Malvina, 
of  whom  his  heart  was  now  so  full ;  and  who,  from  first 
to  last,  had  been  such  a  favorite  object  throughout  all 
his  poems. 

The  scene  of  most  of  Ossian's  poems  is  laid  in  Scot- 
land, or  in  the  coast  of  Ireland,  opposite  to  the  territo- 
ries of  Fingal.  When  the  scene  is  in  Ireland,  we  per- 
ceive no  change  of  manners  from  those  of  Ossian's 
native  country.  For  as  Ireland  was  undoubtedly  peo- 
pled with  Celtic  tribes,  the  language,  customs,  and  re- 
ligion of  both  nations  were  the  same.  They  had  been 
separated  from  one  another  by  migration,  only  a  few 
generations,  as  it  should  seem,  before  our  poet's  age  ; 
and  they  still  maintained  a  close  and  frequent  inter- 
course. But  when  the  poet  relates  the  expeditions  of 
any  of  his  heroes  to  the  Scandinavian  coast,  or  to  the 
islands  of  Orkney,  which  were  then  part  of  the  Scan- 
dinavian territory,  as  he  does  in  Carric-thura,  Sul-malla 
of  Lumon,  and  Cathloda,  the  case  is  quite  altered. 
Those  countries  were  inhabited  by  nations  of  the  Teu- 
tonic descent,  who,  in  their  manners  and  religious  rites, 
differed  widely  from  the  Celtce ;  and  it  is  curious  and 
remarkable,  to  find  this  difference  clearly  pointed  out 
in  the  poems  of  Ossian.  His  descriptions  bear  the 
native  marks  of  one  who  was  present  in  the  expeditions 
which  he  relates,  and  who  describes  what  he  had  seen 
with  his  own  eyes.  No  sooner  are  we  carried  to 
Lochlin,  or  the  islands  of  Inistore,  than  we  perceive 
we  are  in  a  foreign  region.  New  objects  begin  to  ap- 
pear. We  meet  everywhere  with  the  stones  and  cir- 
cles of  Loda,  that  is,  Odin,  the  great  Scandinavian 
deity.  We  meet  with  the  divinations  and  enchant- 
ments for  which  it  is  well  known  those  northern  na- 
;icns  were  early  famous.  "  There,  mixed  with  the 


144  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

murmur  of  waters,  rose  the  voice  of  aged  men,  who 
called  the  forms  of  night  to  aid  them  in  their  war  ;" 
whilst  the  Caledonian  chiefs,  who  assisted  them,  are 
described  as  standing  at  a  distance,  heedless  of  their 
rites.  That  ferocity  of  manners  which  distinguished 
those  nations,  also  becomes  conspicuous.  In  the  com- 
bats of  their  chiefs  there  is  a  peculiar  savageness ;  even 
their  women  are  bloody  and  fierce.  The  spirit  and 
the  very  ideas  of  Regner  Lodbrog,  that  northern  scal- 
der,  whom  I  formerly  quoted,  occur  to  us  again.  "  The 
hawks,"  Ossian  makes  one  of  the  Scandinavian  chiefs 
say,  "  rush  from  all  their  winds  ;  they  are  wont  to  trace 
iny  course.  We  rejoiced  three  days  above  the  dead, 
and  called  the  hawks  of  heaven.  They  came  from  all 
their  winds,  to  feast  on  the  foes  of  Annir." 

Dismissing  now  the  separate  consideration  of  any 
of  our  author's  works,  I  proceed  to  make  some  obser- 
vations on  his  manner  of  writing,  under  the  general 
heads  of  Description,  Imagery,  and  Sentiment. 

A  poet  of  original  genius  is  always  distinguished  by 
his  talent  for  description.  A  second-rate  writer  dis- 
cerns nothing  new  or  peculiar  in  the  object  he  means 
to  describe.  His  conceptions  of  it  are  vague  and  loose  ; 
his  expressions  feeble  ;  and  of  course  the  object  is  pre- 
sented to  us  indistinctly,  and  as  through  a  cloud.  But 
a  true  poet  makes  us  imagine  that  we  see  it  before  our 
eyes ;  he  catches  the  distinguishing  features ;  he  gives 
it  the  colors  of  life  and  reality  ;  he  places  it  in  such  a 
light  that  a  painter  could  copy  after  him.  This  happy 
talent  is  chiefly  owing  to  a  lively  imagination,  which 
first  receives  a  strong  impression  of  the  object ;  and 
then,  by  a  proper  selection  of  capital  picturesque  cir- 
cumstances employed  in  describing  it,  transmits  that 
impression  in  its  full  force  to  the  imaginations  of  others. 
That  Ossian  possesses  this  descriptive  power  in  a  high 
degree,  we  have  a  clear  proof,  from  the  effect  which 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  145 

his  descriptions  produce  upon  the  imaginations  of  those 
who  read  him  with  any  degree  of  attention,  or  taste. 
Few  poets  are  more  interesting.  We  contract  an  inti- 
mate acquaintance  with  his  principal  heroes.  The 
characters,  the  manners,  the  face  of  the  country,  be- 
come familiar ;  we  even  think  we  could  draw  the 
figure  of  his  ghost.  In  a  word,  whilst  reading  him  we 
are  transported  as  into  a  new  region,  and  dwell  among 
his  objects  as  if  they  were  all  real. 

It  were  easy  to  point  out  several  instances  of  ex- 
quisite painting  in  the  works  of  our  author.  Such,  for 
instance,  is  the  scenery  with  which  Temora  opens,  and 
the  attitude  in  which  Cairbar  is  there  presented  to  us  ; 
the  description  of  the  young  prince  Cormac,  in  the 
same  book  ;  and  the  ruins  of  Balclutha,  in  Cartho. 
"  I  have  seen  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  were 
desolate.  The  fire  had  resounded  in  the  halls :  and 
the  voice  of  the  people  is  heard  no  more.  The  stream 
of  Clutha  was  removed  from  its  place  by  the  fall  of  the 
walls.  The  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely  head ;  the 
moss  whistled  to  the  wind.  The  fox  looked  out  from 
the  windows ;  the  rank  grass  of  the  wall  waved  round 
his  head.  Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Moina ;  silence 
is  in  the  house  of  her  fathers."  Nothing  also  can  be 
more  natural  and  lively  than  the  manner  in  which 
Carthon  afterward  describes  how  the  conflagration  of 
his  city  affected  him  when  a  child :  "  Have  I  not  seen 
the  fallen  Balclutha  ?  And  shall  I  feast  with  Comhal'a 
son  ?  Comhal !  who  threw  his  fire  in  the  midst  of  my 
father's  hall !  I  was  young,  and  knew  not  the  cause 
why  the  virgins  wept.  The  columns  of  smoke  pleased 
mine  eye.  when  they  arose  above  my  walls :  I  often 
looked  back  with  gladness,  when  my  friends  fled  above 
the  hill.  But  when  the  years  of  my  youth  came  on,  1 
beheld  the  moss  of  my  fallen  walls.  My  sigh  arose 
with  the  morning ;  and  my  tears  descended  with  night. 
'13 


146  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

Shall  I  not  fight,  I  said  to  my  soul,  against  the  children 
of  my  foes  ?  And  I  will  fight,  O  bard !  I  feel  the 
strength  of  my  soul."  In  the  same  poem,  the  assem- 
bling of  the  chiefs  round  Fingal,  who  had  been  warned 
of  some  impending  danger  by  the  appearance  of  a 
prodigy,  is  described  with  so  many  picturesque  circum- 
stances, that  one  imagines  himself  present  in  the  as- 
sembly.  "  The  king  alone  beheld  the  terrible  sight, 
and  he  foresaw  the  death  of  his  people.  He  came  in 
silence  to  his  hall,  and  took  his  father's  spear :  the 
mail  rattled  on  his  breast.  The  heroes  rose  around. 
They  looked  in  silence  on  each  other,  marking  the 
eyes  of  Fingal.  They  saw  the  battle  in  his  face.  A 
thousand  shields  are  placed  at  once  on  their  arms; 
and  they  drew  a  thousand  swords.  The  hall  of  Selma 
brightened  around.  The  clang  of  arms  ascends.  The 
gray  dogs  howl  in  their  place.  No  word  is  among  the 
mighty  chiefs.  Each  marked  the  eyes  of  the  king  j 
and  half  assumed  his  spear." 

It  has  been  objected  to  Ossian,  that  his  descriptions 
of  military  actions  are  imperfect,  and  much  less  diver- 
sified by  the  circumstances  than  those  of  Homer.  This 
is  in  some  measure  true.  The  amazing  fertility  of 
Homer's  invention,  is  nowhere  so  much  displayed  as 
in  the  incidents  of  his  battles,  and  in  the  little  history 
pieces  he  gives  of  the  persons  slain.  Nor,  indeed,  with 
regard  to  the  talent  of  description,  can  too  much  be 
said  in  praise  of  Homer.  Every  thing  is  alive  in  his 
writings.  The  colors  with  which  he  paints  are  those 
of  nature.  But  Ossian's  genius  was  of  a  different 
kind  from  Homer's.  It  led  him  to  hurry  towards  grand 
objects,  rather  than  to  amuse  himself  with  particulars 
of  less  importance.  He  could  dwell  on  the  death  of  a 
favorite  hero  ;  but  that  of  a  private  man  seldom  stopped 
ois  rapid  course.  Homer's  genius  was  more  compre. 
uensive  than  Ossian's.  It  included  a  wider  circle  of 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  147 

oojects ;  and  could  work  up  any  incident  into  descrip- 
tion. Ossian's  was  more  limited ;  but  the  region 
within  which  it  chiefly  exerted  itself  was  the  highest 
of  all,  the  region  of  the  pathetic  and  the  sublime. 

We  must  not  imagine,  however,  that  Ossian's  battles 
consist  only  of  general  indistinct  description.  Such 
beautiful  incidents  are  sometimes  introduced,  and  the 
circumstances  of  the  persons  slain  so  much  diversified, 
as  show  that  he  could  have  embellished  his  military 
scenes  with  an  abundant  variety  of  particulars,  if  his 
genius  had  led  him  to  dwell  upon  them.  "  One  man 
is  stretched  in  the  dust  of  his  native  land ;  he  fell, 
where  often  he  had  spread  the  feast,  and  often  raised 
the  voice  of  the  harp."  The  maid  of  Inistore  is  intro- 
duced in  a  moving  apostrophe,  as  weeping  for  another; 
and  a  third,  "  as  rolled  in  the  dust  he  lifted  his  faint 
eyes  to  the  king,"  is  remembered  and  mourned  by 
Fingal  as  the  friend  of  Agandecca.  The  blood  pour- 
ing from  the  wound  of  one  who  was  slain  by  night,  is 
heard  "  hissing  on  the  half-extinguished  oak,"  which 
had  been  kindled  for  giving  light.  Another  climbling 
up  a  tree  to  escape  from  his  foe,  is  pierced  by  his  spear 
from  behind :  shrieking,  panting  he  fell;  whilst  moss 
and  withered  branches  pursue  his  fall,  and  strew  the 
blue  arms  of  Gaul,  Never  was  a  finer  picture  drawn 
of  the  ardor  of  two  youthful  warriors  than  the  follow- 
ing :  "  I  saw  Gaul  in  his  armor,  and  my  soul  was 
mixed  with  his ;  for  the  fire  of  the  battle  was  in  his 
eyes  ;  he  looked  to  the  foe  with  joy.  We  spoke  the 
words  of  friendship  in  secret ;  and  the  lightning  of  our 
swords  poured  together.  We  drew  them  behind  the 
wood,  and  tried  the  strength  of  our  arms  on  the  empty 
air." 

Ossian  is  always  concise  in  his  descriptions,  whicn 
adds  mach  to  their  beauty  and  force.  For  it  is  a  great 
mistake  to  imagine,  that  a  crowd  of  particulars,  or  a 


148  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

very  full  and  extended  style,  is  of  advantage  to  descnp. 
tion.  On  the  contrary,  such  a  diffuse  manner  for  the 
most  part  weakens  it.  Any  one  redundant  circumstance 
is  a  nuisance.  It  encumbers  and  loads  the  fancy,  and 
renders  the  main  image  indistinct.  "  Obstat,"  aa 
Quintilian  says  with  regard  to  style,  "  quicquid  non  ad- 
juvat."  To  be  concise  in  description,  is  one  thing : 
and  to  be  general,  is  another.  No  description  that  rests 
in  generals  can  possibly  be  good ;  it  can  convey  no 
lively  idea  ;  for  it  is  of  particulars  only  that  we  have  a 
distinct  conception.  But,  at  the  same  time,  no  strong 
imagination  dwells  long  upon  any  one  particular ;  or 
heaps  together  a  mass  of  trivial  ones.  By  the  happy 
choice  of  some  one,  or  of  a  few  that  are  the  most 
striking,  it  presents  the  image  more  complete,  shows 
us  more  at  one  glance  than  a  feeble  imagination  is  able 
to  do,  by  turning  its  object  round  and  round  into  a 
variety  of  lights.  Tacitus  is  of  all  prose  writers  the 
most  concise.  He  has  even  a  degree  of  abruptness 
resembling  our  author  :  yet  no  writer  is  more  eminent 
for  lively  description.  When  Fingal,  after  having 
conquered  the  haughty  Swaran,  proposes  to  dismiss 
him  with  honor :  "  Raise  to-morrow  thy  white  sails  to 
the  wind,  thou  brother  of  Agandecca !"  he  conveys,  by 
thus  addressing  his  enemy,  a  stronger  impression  of 
the  emotions  then  passing  within  his  mind,  than  if 
whole  paragraphs  had  been  spent  in  describing  the 
conflict  between  resentment  against  Swaran  and  the 
tender  remembrance  of  his  ancient  love.  No  amplifi- 
cation is  needed  to  give  us  the  most  full  idea  of  a  hardy 
veteran,  after  the  few  following  words  :  "  His  shield  is 
marked  with  the  strokes  of  battle  ;  his  red  eye  de- 
soises  danger."  When  Oscar,  left  alone,  was  sur- 
rounded by  foes,  "  he  stood,,"  it  is  said,  "  growing  in 
his  place,  like  the  flood  of  the  narrow  vale ;"  a  happy 
representation  of  one,  who,  by  daring  intrepidity  in 


ON  THE  POiiMS  OF  OSSIAN.  149 

the  midst  of  danger,  seems  to  increase  in  his  appear- 
ance, and  becomes  more  formidable  every  moment, 
like  the  sudden  rising  of  the  torrent  hemmed  in  by  the 
valley.  And  a  whole  crowd  of  ideas,  concerning  tho 
circumstances  of  domestic  sorrow,  occasioned  by  a 
young  warrior's  first  going  forth  to  battle,  is  poured 
upon  the  mind  by  these  words  :  "  Calmar  leaned  on  his 
father's  spear ;  that  spear  which  he  brought  from 
Lara's  hall,  when  the  soul  of  his  mother  was  sad." 

The  conciseness  of  Ossian's  descriptions  is  the  more 
proper,  on  account  of  his  subjects.  Descriptions  of  gay 
and  smiling  scenes  may,  without  any  disadvantage,  be 
amplified  and  prolonged.  Force  is  not  the  predomi- 
nant quality  expected  in  these.  The  description  may 
be  weakened  by  being  diffuse,  yet,  notwithstanding, 
may  be  beautiful  still ;  whereas,  with  respect  to  grand, 
solemn,  and  pathetic  subjects,  which  are  Ossian's  chief 
field,  the  case  is  very  different.  In  these,  energy  is 
above  all  things  required.  The  imagination  must  be 
seized  at  once,  or  not  at  all;  and  is  far  more  deeply 
impressed  by  one  strong  and  ardent  image,  than  by 
the  anxious  minuteness  of  labored  illustration. 

But  Ossian's  genius,  though  chiefly  turned  towards 
the  sublime  and  pathetic,  was  not  confined  to  it.  In 
subjects  also  of  grace  and  delicacy,  he  discovers  the 
hand  of  a  master.  Take  for  an  example  the  following 
elegant  description  of  Agandecca,  wherein  the  tender- 
ness of  Tibullus  seems  united  with  the  majesty  of 
Virgil.  "The  daughter  of  the  snow  overheard,  and 
left  the  hall  of  her  secret  sigh.  She  came  in  all  her 
beauty ;  like  the  moon  from  the  cloud  of  the  east. 
Loveliness  was  around  her  as  light.  Her  steps  were 
like  the  music  of  songs.  She  saw  the  youth  and  loved 
him.  He  was  the  stolen  sigh  of  her  soul.  Her  blue 
eyes  rolled  on  him  in  secret;  and  she  blest  the  chief 
of  Morven."  Several  other  instances  might  be  pro. 
13* 


150  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

duced  of  the  feelings  of  love  and  friendship,  painted 
by  our  author  with  a  most  natural  and  happy  deli- 
cacy. 

The  simplicity  of  Ossian's  manner  adds  great  beauty 
to  his  descriptions,  and  indeed  to  his  whole  poetry. 
We  meet  with  no  affected  ornaments  ;  no  forced  re- 
finement ;  no  marks  either  in  style  or  thought  of  a 
studied  endeavor  to  shine  or  sparkle.  Ossian  appears 
everywhere  to  be  prompted  by  his  feelings  ;  and  to 
speak  from  the  abundance  of  his  heart.  I  remember 
no  more  than  one  instance  of  what  may  be  called  a 
quaint  thought  in  this  whole  collection  of  his  works. 
It  is  in  the  first  book  of  Fingal,  where,  from  the  tombs 
of  two  lovers,  two  lonely  yews  are  mentioned  to  have 
sprung,  "  whose  branches  wished  to  meet  on  high." 
This  sympathy  of  the  trees  with  the  lovers,  may  be 
reckoned  to  border  on  an  Italian  conceit ;  and  it  is 
somewhat  curious  to  find  this  single  instance  of  that 
sort  of  wit  in  our  Celtic  poetry. 

"  The  joy  of  grief"  is  one  of  Ossian's  remarkable 
expressions,  several  times  repeated.  If  any  one  shall 
think  that  it  needs  to  be  justified  by  a  precedent,  he 
may  find  it  twice  used  by  Homer :  in  the  Iliad,  when 
Achilles  is  visited  by  the  ghost  of  Patroclus;  and  in 
the  Odyssey,  when  Ulysses  meets  his  mother  in  the 
shades.  On  both  these  occasions,  the  heroes,  melted 
with  tenderness,  lament  their  not  having  it  in  their 
power  to  throw  their  arms  round  the  ghost,  "  that  we 
might,"  say  they,  "in  mutal  embrace,  enjoy  the  delight 
of  grief." 

l\pvcpolo  TorapirSficcda  ydoto. 

But,  in  truth,  the  expression  stands  in  need  of  no 
defence  from  authority  ;  for  it  is  a  natural  and  just  ex- 
pression ;  and  conveys  a  clear  idea  of  that  gratification 
which  a  virtuous  heart  often  feels  in  the  indulgence  of 


0]    THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIf.  151 

a  tender  melam.holy.  Ossian  makes  a  very  propef 
distinction  betwe  en  this  gratification  and  the  destructive 
effect  of  overpowering  grief.  "  There  is  a  joy  in  grief 
when  peace  dwr.lls  in  the  breasts  of  the  sad.  But  sor- 
row wastes  the  mournful,  O  daughter  of  Toscar,  and 
their  days  are  few."  To  "  give  the  joy  of  grief,"  gen- 
erally signifies,  to  raise  the  strain  of  soft  and  grave 
music ;  and  finely  characterizes  the  taste  of  Ossian'a 
age  and  counlry.  In  those  days,  when  the  songs  of 
bards  were  the  great  delight  of  heroes,  the  tragic  muse 
was  held  in  chief  honor :  gallant  actions  and  virtuous 
sufferings,  were  the  chosen  theme  ;  preferably  to  that 
light  and  trifling  strain  of  poetry  and  music,  which 
promotes  light  and  trifling  manners,  and  serves  to 
emasculate  the  mind.  "  Strike  the  harp  in  my  hall," 
said  the  great  Fingal,  in  the  midst  of  youth  and  victo- 
ry ;  "  strike  the  harp  in  my  hall,  and  let  Fingal  hear 
the  song.  Pleasant  is  the  joy  of  grief!  It  is  like  the 
shower  of  spring,  when  it  softens  the  branch  of  the 
oak  ;  and  the  young  leaf  lifts  its  green  head.  Sing  on, 
O  bards  !  To-morrow  we  lift  the  sail." 

Personal  epithets  have  been  much  used  by  all  the 
poets  of  the  most  ancient  ages  ;  and  when  well  chosen, 
not  general  and  unmeaning,  they  contribute  not  a  little 
to  render  the  style  descriptive  and  animated.  Besides 
epithets  founded  on  bodily  distinctions,  akin  to  many 
of  Homer's,  we  find  in  Ossian  several  which  are  re- 
markably beautiful  and  poetical.  Such  as  Oscar  of 
the  future  fights,  Fingal  of  the  mildest  look,  Carril  of 
other  times,  the  mildly  blushing  Evir-allin :  Bragela, 
the  lonely  sun-beam  of  Dunscaich  ;  a  Culdee,  the  son 
of  the  secret  cell. 

But  of  all  the  ornaments  employed  in  descriptive 
poetry,  comparisons  or  similes  are  the  most  splendid. 
These  chiefly  form  what  is  called  the  imagery  of  a 
poem ;  and  as  they  abound  so  much  in  the  works  of 


152  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

Ossian,  and  are  commonly  among  the  favorite  passages 
of  all  poets,  it  may  be  expected  that  I  should  be  some, 
what  particular  in  my  remarks  upon  them. 

A  poetical  simile  always  supposes  two  objects  brought 
together,  between  which  t!vre  is  some  near  relation  or 
connection  in  the  fancy.  What  that  relation  ought  to 
be,  cannot  be  precisely  de%itd.  For  various,  almost 
numberless,  are  the  analogies  formed  among  objects, 
by  a  sprightly  imagination.  The  relation  of  actual 
similitude,  or  likeness  of  app*%rance,  is  far  from  being 
the  only  foundation  of  poeticul  comparison.  Some- 
times a  resemblance  in  the  effect  produced  by  two  ob- 
jects, is  made  the  connecting  principle  :  sometimes  a 
resemblance  in  one  distinguishing  property  or  circum- 
stance. Very  often  two  objecU  are  brought  together 
in  a  simile,  though  they  resemble  cue  another,  strictly 
speaking,  in  nothing,  only  because  they  raise  in  the 
mind  a  train  of  similar,  and  what  a;a}  be  called  con- 
cordant, ideas ;  so  that  the  remembrance  of  the  one, 
when  recalled,  serves  to  quicken  and  heighten  the  im- 
pression made  by  the  other.  Thus,  to  give  ac  instance 
from  our  poet,  the  pleasure  with  which  an  eld  man 
looks  back  on  the  exploits  of  his  youth,  has  certainly 
no  direct  resemblance  to  the  beauty  of  a  fine  evening  ; 
farther  than  that  both  agree  in  producing  a  certain 
calm,  placid  joy.  Yet  Ossian  has  founded  upon  this, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  comparisons  that  is  to  be  met 
with  in  any  poet.  "  Wilt  thou  not  listen,  son  of  the 
rock,  to  the  song  of  Ossian  ?  My  soul  is  full  of  othei 
times ;  the  joy  of  my  youth  returns.  Thus  the  sur. 
appears  in  the  west,  after  the  steps  of  his  brightness 
have  moved  behind  a  storm.  The  green  hills  lift  theii 
dewy  heads.  The  blue  streams  rejoice  in  the  vale. 
The  aged  hero  comes  forth  on  his  staff;  and  his  gray 
hair  glitters  in  the  beam."  Never  was  there  a  finer 
group  of  objects.  It  raises  a  strong  conception  of  the 


ON  TH£  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  153 

old  man's  joy  and  elation  of  heart,  by  displaying  a 
scene  which  produces  in  every  spectator  a  correspond, 
ing  train  of  pleasing  emotions  ;  the  declining  sun  look- 
ing forth  in  his  brightness  after  a  storm  ;  the  cheerful 
face  of  all  nature  ;  and  the  still  life  finely  animated  by 
the  circumstance  of  the  aged  hero,  with  his  staff  and 
his  gray  locks :  a  circumstance  both  extremely  pic- 
turesque in  itself,  and  peculiarly  suited  to  the  main 
object  of  the  comparison.  Such  analogies  and  associ- 
ations of  ideas  as  these,  are  highly  pleasing  to  the  fan- 
cy.  They  give  opportunity  for  introducing  many  a 
fine  poetical  picture.  They  diversify  the  scene  ;  they 
aggrandize  the  subject ;  they  keep  the  imagination 
awake  and  sprightly.  For  as  the  judgment  is  princi- 
pally exercised  in  distinguishing  objects,  and  remarking 
the  differences  among  those  which  seem  alike,  so  the 
highest  amusement  of  the  imagination  is  to  trace  like- 
nesses and  agreements  among  those  which  seem  differ- 
ent. 

The  principal  rules  which  respect  poetical  compari- 
sons are,  that  they  be  introduced  on  proper  occasions, 
when  the  mind  is  disposed  to  relish  them ;  and  not  in 
the  midst  of  some  severe  and  agitating  passion,  which 
cannot  admit  this  play  of  fancy ;  that  they  be  founded 
on  a.  resemblance  neither  too  near  and  obvious,  so  as 
to  give  little  amusement  to  the  imagination  in  tracing 
it,  nor  too  faint  and  remote,  so  as  to  be  apprehended 
with  difficulty  ;  that  they  serve  either  to  illustrate  the 
principal  object,  and  to  render  the  conception  of  it 
more  clear  and  distinct ;  or,  at  least,  to  heighten  and 
embellish  it,  by  a  suitable  association  of  images. 

Every  country  has  a  scenery  peculiar  to  itself;  and 
the  imagery  of  a  good  poet  will  exhibit  it.  For  as  he 
copies  after  nature,  his  allusions  will  of  course  be  taken 
from  those  objects  which  he  sees  around  him,  and 
which  have  often  struck  his  fancy.  For  this  reason, 


154  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

in  order  to  judge  of  the  propriety  of  poetical  imagery, 
we  ought  to  be  in  some  measure  acquainted  with  the 
natural  history  of  the  country  where  the  scene  of  the 
poem  is  laid.  The  introduction  of  foreign  images  be- 
trays a  poet,  copying  not  from  nature,  but  from  other 
vriters.  Hence  so  many  lions,  and  tigers,  and  eagles, 
and  serpents,  which  we  meet  with  in  the  similes  of 
modern  poets ;  as  if  these  animals  had  acquired  some 
right  to  a  place  in  poetical  comparisons  for  ever,  be- 
cause employed  by  ancient  authors.  They  employed 
them  with  propriety,  as  objects  generally  known  in 
their  country,  but  they  are  absurdly  used  for  illustra- 
tion by  us,  who  know  them  only  at  second  hand,  or  by 
description.  To  most  readers  of  modern  poetry,  it 
were  more  to  the  purpose  to  describe  lions  or  tigers 
by  similes  taken  from  men,  than  to  compare  men  to 
lions.  Ossian  is  very  correct  in  this  particular.  His 
imagery  is,  without  exception,  copied  from  that  face 
of  nature  which  he  saw  before  his  eyes  ;  and  by  con- 
sequence may  be  expected  to  be  lively.  We  meet 
with  no  Grecian  or  Italian  scenery ;  but  with  the 
mists  and  clouds,  and  storms,  of  a  northern  mountain- 
ous region. 

No  poet  abounds  more  in  similes  than  Ossian. 
There  are  in  this  collection  as  many,  at  least,  as  in 
the  whole  Iliad  and  Odyssey  of  Homer.  I  am  indeed 
inclined  to  think,  that  the  works  of  both  poets  are  too 
much  crowded  with  them.  Similes  are  sparkling  or- 
naments ;  and,  like  all  things  that  sparkle,  are  apt  to 
dazzle  and  tire  us  by  their  lustre.  But  if  Ossian's 
similes  be  too  frequent,  they  have  this  advantage,  ot 
being  commonly  shorter  than  Homer's  ;  they  interrup 
his  narration  less ;  he  just  glances  aside  to  some  re 
sembling  object,  and  instantly  returns  to  his  former 
track.  Homer's  similes  include  a  wider  range  of  ob- 
jects j  but,  in  return,  Ossian's  are,  without  exception, 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  155 

taken  from  objects  of  dignity,  which  cannot  be  said  for 
all  those  which  Homer  employs.  The  sun,  the  moon, 
and  the  stars,  clouds  and  meteors,  lightning  and  thun- 
der, seas  and  whales,  rivers,  torrents,  winds,  ice,  rain, 
snow,  dews,  mist,  fire  and  smoke,  trees  and  forests, 
heath  and  grass  and  flowers,  rocks  and  mountains, 
music  and  songs,  light  and  darkness,  spirits  and  ghosts  ; 
these  form  the  circle  within  which  Ossian's  compari- 
sons generally  run.  Some,  not  many,  are  taken  from 
birds  and  beasts :  as  eagles,  sea-fowl,  the  horse,  the 
deer,  and  the  mountain  bee  ;  and  a  very  few  from 
such  operations  of  art  as  were  then  known.  Homer 
has  diversified  his  imagery,  by  many  more  allusions  to 
the  animal  world  ;  to  lions,  bulls,  goats,  herds  of  cattle, 
serpents,  insects  ;  and  to  various  occupations  of  rural 
and  pastoral  life.  Ossian's  defect  in  this  article,  is 
plainly  owing  to  the  desert,  uncultivated  state  of  his 
country,  which  suggested  to  him  few  images  beyond 
natural  inanimate  objects,  in  their  rudest  form.  The 
birds  and  animals  of  the  country  were  probably  not 
numerous  ;  and  his  acquaintance  with  them  was  slen- 
der, as  they  were  little  subjected  to  the  uses  of  man. 

The  great  objection  made  to  Ossian's  imagery,  is 
its  uniformity,  and  the  too  frequent  repetition  of  the 
same  comparison.  In  a  work  so  thick-sown  with 
similes  one  could  not  but  expect  to  find  images  of  the 
same  kind  sometimes  suggested  to  the  poet  by  resem- 
bling objects ;  especially  to  a  poet  like  Ossian,  who 
wrote  from  the  immediate  impulse  of  poetical  enthusi- 
asm, and  without  much  preparation  of  study  or  labor. 
Fertile  as  Homer's  imagination  is  acknowledged  to  be, 
who  does  not  know  how  often  his  lions,  and  bulls,  and 
flocks  of  sheep,  recur  with  little  or  no  variation  ;  nay, 
sometimes,  in  the  very  same  words  ?  The  objection 
made  to  Ossian  is,  however,  founded,  in  a  great  meas- 
ure, upon  a  mistake.  It  has  been  supposed  by  inat- 


156  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

tentive  readers,  that  wherever  the  moon,  the  cloud,  or 
the  thunder,  returns  in  a  simile,  it  is  the  same  simile, 
and  the  same  moon,  or  cloud,  or  thunder,  which  they 
had  met  with  a  few  pages  before.  Whereas  very 
often  the  similes  are  widely  different.  The  object, 
from  whence  they  are  taken,  is  indeed  in  substance 
the  same  ;  but  the  image  is  new ;  for  the  appearance 
of  the  object  is  changed ;  it  is  presented  to  the  fancy 
in  another  attitude  ;  and  clothed  with  new  circumstan- 
ces, to  make  it  suit  the  different  illustration  for  which 
it  is  employed.  In  this  lies  Ossian's  great  art ;  in  so 
happily  varying  the  form  of  the  few  natural  appear- 
ances with  which  he  was  acquainted,  as  to  make  them 
correspond  to  a  great  many  different  objects. 

Let  us  take  for  one  instance  the  moon,  which  is  very 
frequently  introduced  in  his  comparisons  ;  as  in  north- 
ern climates,  where  the  nights  are  long,  the  moon  is  a 
greater  object  of  attention  than  in  the  climate  of  Ho- 
mer ;  and  let  us  view  how  much  our  poet  has  diversi- 
fied its  appearance.  The  shield  of  a  warrior  is  like 
"  the  darkened  moon  when  it  moves  a  dun  circle 
through  the  heavens."  The  face  of  a  ghost,  wan  and 
pale,  is  like  "  the  beam  of  the  setting  moon."  And  a 
different  appearance  of  a  ghost,  thin  and  indistinct,  is 
like  "  the  new  moon  seen  through  the  gathered  mist, 
when  the  sky  pours  down  its  flaky  snow,  and  the  world 
is  silent  and  dark  ;"  or,  in  a  different  form  still,  is  like 
"  the  watery  beam  of  the  moon,  when  it  rushes  from 
between  two  clouds,  and  the  midnight  shower  is  on  the 
field."  A  very  opposite  use  is  made  of  the  moon  ir 
the  description  of  Agandecca :  "  She  came  in  all  her 
beauty,  like  the  moon  from  the  cloud  of  the  east." 
Hope  succeeded  by  disappointment,  is  "  joy  rising  on 
her  face  and  sorrow  returning  again,  like  a  thin  cloud 
on  the  moon."  But  when  Swaran,  after  his  defeat,  is 
cheered  by  Fingal's  generosity,  "  his  face  brightened 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  157 

like  the  full  moon  of  heaven,  when  the  clouds  vanish 
away,  and  leave  her  calm  and  broad  in  the  midst  of  the 
sky."  Yenvela  is  "  bright  as  the  moon  when  it  trem- 
bles o'er  the  western  wave  ; "  but  the  soul  of  the  guilty 
Uthal  is  "  dark  as  the  troubled  face  of  the  moon,  when 
it  foretells  the  storm."  And  by  a  very  fanciful  and 
uncommon  allusion,  it  is  said  of  Cormac,  who  was  to 
die  in  his  early  years,  "  Nor  long  shalt  thou  lift  the 
spear,  mildly-shining  beam  of  youth  !  Death  stands 
dim  behind  thee,  like  the  darkened  half  of  the  moon 
behind  its  growing  light." 

Another  instance  of  the  same  nature  may  be  taken 
from  mist,  which,  as  being  a  very  familiar  appearance 
in  the  country  of  Ossian,  he  applies  to  a  variety  of  pur- 
poses, and  pursues  through  a  great  many  forms.  Some- 
times, which  one  would  hardly  expect,  he  employs  it 
to  heighten  the  appearance  of  a  beautiful  object.  The 
hair  of  Morna  is  "  like  the  mist  of  Cromla,  when  it 
curls  on  the  rock,  and  shines  to  the  beam  of  the  west." 
"  The  song  comes  with  its  music  to  melt  and  please 
the  ear.  It  is  like  soft  mist,  that  rising  from  the  lake 
pours  on  the  silent  vale.  The  green  flowers  are  filled 
with  dew.  The  sun  returns  in  its  strength,  and  the 
mist  is  gone."  But,  for  the  most  part,  mist  is  employ- 
ed as  a  similitude  of  some  disagreeable  or  terrible  ob- 
ject. "  The  soul  of  Nathos  was  sad,  like  the  sun  in 
the  day  of  mist,  when  his  face  is  watery  and  dim."— 
"  The  darkness  of  old  age  comes  like  the  mist  of  the 
desert."  The  face  of  a  ghost  is  "  pale  as  the  mist  of 
Cromla." — "  The  gloom  of  battle  is  rolled  along  as 
mist  that  is  poured  on  the  valley,  when  storms  invade 
the  silent  sunshine  of  heaven."  Fame,  suddenly  de- 
parting, is  likened  to  "  mist  that  flies  away  before  the 
rustling  wind  of  the  vale."  A  ghost,  slowly  vanishing, 
to  "  mist  that  melts  by  degrees  on  the  sunny  hill." 
Cairbar,  after  his  treacherous  assassination  of  Oscar,  is 
14 


158  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

compared  to  a  pestilential  fog.  "  I  love  a  foe  lika 
Cathmor,"  says  Fingai,  "  his  soul  is  great ;  his  arm  is 
strong  ;  his  battles  are  full  of  fame.  But  the  little  soul 
is  like  a  vapor  that  hovers  round  the  marshy  lake.  It 
never  rises  on  the  green  hill,  lest  the  winds  meet  it 
there.  Its  dwelling  is  in  the  cave  ;  and  it  sends  forth 
the  dart  of  death."  This  is  a  simile  highly  finished. 
But  there  is  another  which  is  still  more  striking,  found- 
ed also  on  mist,  in  the  fourth  book  of  Temora.  Twe 
factious  chiefs  are  contending  :  Cathmor,  the  king,  in- 
terposes, rebukes,  and  silences  them.  The  poet  in- 
tends to  give  us  the  highest  idea  of  Cathmor's  supe- 
riority ;  and  most  effectually  accomplishes  his  intention 
by  the  following  happy  image.  "  They  sunk  from  the 
king  on  either  side,  like  two  columns  of  morning  mist, 
when  the  sun  rises  between  them  on  his  glittering 
rocks.  Dark  is  their  rolling  on  either  side  ;  each  to- 
wards its  reedy  pool."  These  instances  may  suffi- 
ciently show  with  what  richness  of  imagination  Ossian's 
comparisons  abound,  and,  at  the  same  time,  with  what 
propriety  of  judgment  they  are  employed.  If  his  field 
was  narrow,  it  must  be  admitted  to  have  been  as  well 
cultivated  as  its  extent  would  allow. 

As  it  is  usual  to  judge  of  poets  from  a  comparison 
of  their  similes  more  than  of  other  passages,  it  will, 
perhaps,  be  agreeable  to  the  reader,  to  see  how  Homer 
and  Ossian  have  conducted  some  images  of  the  same 
kind.  This  might  be  shown  in  many  instances.  For 
as  the  great  objects  of  nature  are  common  to  the  poets 
of  all  nations,  and  make  the  general  storehouse  of  all 
imagery,  the  groundwork  of  their  comparisons  must, 
of  course,  be  frequently  the  same.  I  shall  select  only 
a  few  of  the  most  considerable  from  both  poets.  Mr. 
Pope's  tra-nslation  of  Homer  can  be  of  no  use  to  us 
here.  The  parallel  is  altogether  unfe  ir  between  prose 
and  the  imposing  harmony  of  flowing  numbers.  It  is 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  159 

only  by  viewing  Homer  in  the  simplicity  of  a  prose 
translation,  that  we  can  form  any  comparison  between 
the  two  bards. 

The  shock  of  two  encountering  armies,  the  noise 
and  the  tumult  of  battle,  afford  one  of  the  most  grand 
and  awful  subjects  of  description  ;  on  which  all  epic 
poets  have  exerted  their  strength.  Let  us  first  hear 
Homer.  The  following  description  is  a  favorite  one, 
for  we  find  it  twice  repeated  in  the  same  words.* 
"  When  now  the  conflicting  hosts  joined  in  the  field 
of  battle,  then  were  mutually  opposed  shields,  and 
swords,  and  the  strength  of  armed  men.  The  bossy 
bucklers  were  dashed  against  each  other.  The  uni- 
versal tumult  rose.  Thei-e  were  mingled  the  triumph- 
ant shouts  and  the  dying  groans  of  the  victors  and  the 
vanquished.  The  earth  streamed  with  blood.  As  when 
winter  torrents,  rushing  from  the  mountains,  pour  into 
a  narrow  valley  their  violent  waters.  They  issue  from 
a  thousand  springs,  and  mix  in  the  hollowed  channel. 
The  distant  shepherd  hears  on  the  mountain  their  roar 
from  afar.  Such  was  the  terror  and  the  shout  of  the 
engaging  armies."  In  another  passage,  the  poet, 
much  in  the  manner  of  Ossian,  heaps  simile  on  simile, 
to  express  the  vastness  of  the  idea  with  which  his  ima- 
gination seems  to  labor.  "  With  a  mighty  shout  the 
hosts  engage.  Not  so  loud  roars  the  wave  of  ocean, 
when  driven  against  the  shore  by  the  whole  force  of 
the  boisterous  north  ;  not  so  loud  in  the  woods  of  the 
mountain,  the  noise  of  the  flame,  when  rising  in  its 
fury  to  consume  the  forest ;  not  so  loud  the  wind 
among  the  lofty  oaks,  when  the  wrath  of  the  s'orm 
rages  ;  as  wus  the  clamor  of  the  Greeks  and  Trojans, 
when,  roaring  terrible,  they  rushed  against  each 
other,  "f 

*  Hiad,  iv.  46 ;  and  Iliad,  viii.  60  f  Iliad,  ziv.  393. 


160  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

To  these  descriptions  and  similes,  we  may  oppose 
the  following  from  Ossian,  and  leave  the  reader  to 
judge  between  them.  He  will  find  images  of  the  same 
kind  employed  ;  commonly  less  extended  j  but  thrown 
forth  with  a  glowing  rapidity  which  characterizes  our 
poet.  "  As  autumn's  dark  storms  pour  from  two  echo- 
ing hills,  towards  each  other  approached  the  heroes. 
As  two  dark  streams  from  high  rocks  meet  and  mix, 
and  roar  on  the  plains  ;  loud,  rough,  and  dark  in  bat- 
tle, meet  Lochlin  and  Inisfail.  Chief  mixed  his  strokes 
with  chief,  and  man  with  man.  Steel  clanging,  sound- 
ed on  steel.  Helmets  are  cleft  on  high  ;  blood  bursts 
and  smokes  around. — As  the  troubled  noise  of  the 
ocean,  when  roll  t-he  waves  on  high  ;  as  the  last  peal 
of  the  thunder  of  heaven  ;  such  is  the  noise  of  battle." 
"  As  roll  a  thousand  waves  to  the  rock,  so  Swaran's 
host  came  on  ;  as  meets  a  rock  a  thousand  waves,  so 
Inisfail  met  Swaran.  Death  raises  all  his  voices 
around,  and  mixes  with  the  sound  of  shields. — The 
field  echoes  from  wing  to  wing,  as  a  hundred  hammers 
that  rise  by  turns  on  the  red  son  of  the  furnace." — • 
"  As  a  hundred  winds  on  Morven  ;  as  the  streams  of 
a  hundred  hills  ;  as  clouds  fly  successive  over  heaven  ; 
or  as  the  dark  ocean  assaults  the  shore  of  the  desert ; 
so  roaring,  so  vast,  so  lerrible,  the  armies  mixed  on 
Lena's  echoing  heath."  In  several  of  these  images 
there  is  a  remarkable  similarity  to  Homer's  :  but  what 
follows  is  superior  to  any  comparison  that  Homer  uses 
on  this  subject.  "  The  groan  of  the  people  spread 
over  the  hills  ;  it  was  like  the  thunder  of  night,  when 
the  cloud  bursts  on  Cona,  and  a  thousand  ghosts  shriek 
at  once  on  the  hollow  wind."  Never  was  an  image 
of  more  awful  sublimity  employed  to  heighten  the  ter 
ror  of  battle. 

Both  poets  compare  the  appearance  of  an  army  ap- 
proaching, to  the  gathering  of  dark  clouds.    (l  As  when 


ON  THE  POEMS  01  OSSIAN.  161 

a  shepherd,"  says  Homer,  "  beholds  from  the  rock  a 
Cloud  borne  along  the  sea  by  the  western  wind  ;  black 
as  pitch  it  appears  from  afar  sailing  over  the  ocean, 
and  carrying  the  dreadful  storm.  He  shrinks  at  the 
sight,  and  drives  his  flock  into  the  cave  :  such,  under 
the  Ajaces,  moved  on  the  dark,  the  thickened  phalanx 
to  the  war."* — "  They  came,"  says  Ossian,  "over  the 
desert  like  stormy  clouds,  when  the  winds  roll  them 
over  the  heath  ;  their  edges  are  tinged  with  lightning  ; 
and  the  echoing  groves  foresee  the  storm."  The 
edges  of  the  clouds  tinged  with  lightning,  is  a  sublime 
idea :  but  the  shepherd  and  his  flock  render  Homer's 
simile  more  picturesque.  This  is  frequently  the  dif- 
ference between  the  two  poets.  Ossian  gives  no  more 
than  the  main  image,  strong  and  full :  Homer  adds 
circumstances  and  appendages,  which  amuse  the  fancy 
by  enlivening  the  scenery. 

Homer  compares  the  regular  appearance  of  an  army, 
to  "  clouds  that  are  settled  on  the  mountain-top,  in  the 
day  of  calmness,  when  the  strength  of  the  north  wind 
sleeps. "f  Ossian,  with  full  as  much  propriety,  com- 
pares the  appearance  of  a  disordered  army,  to  "  the 
mountain  cloud,  when  the  blast  hath  entered  its  womb, 
and  scatters  the  curling  gloom  on  every  side."  Ossian's 
clouds  assume  a  great  many  forms,  and,  as  we  might 
expect  from  his  climate,  are  a  fertile  source  of  imagery 
to  him.  "  The  warriors  followed  their  chiefs  like  the 
gathering  of  the  rainy  clouds  behind  the  red  meteors 
of  heaven."  An  army  retreating  without  coming  to 
action,  is  likened  to  "  clouds,  that  having  long  threat- 
ened rain,  retire  slowly  behind  the  hills."  The  picture 
of  Oithona,  after  she  had  determined  to  die,  is  lively 
and  delicate.  "  Her  soul  was  resolved,  and  the  tear 
was  dried  from  her  wildly-looking  eye.  A  troubled 

*  Hiad,  iv.  275.  f  Hiacl,  v  522. 

14* 


162  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

joy  rose  on  her  mind,  like  the  red  path  of  the  lightning 
on  a  stormy  cloud."  The  image  also  of  the  gloomy 
Cairbar,  meditating,  in  silence,  the  assassination  of 
Oscar,  until  the  moment  came  when  his  designs  were 
ripe  for  execution,  is  extremely  noble  and  complete  in 
all  its  parts.  "  Cairbar  heard  their  words  in  silence, 
like  the  cloud  of  a  shower ;  it  stands  dark  on  Cromla 
till  the  lightning  bursts  its  side.  The  valley  gleams 
with  red  light ;  the  spirits  of  the  storm  rejoice.  So 
stood  the  silent  king  of  Temora ;  at  length  his  words 
are  heard." 

Homer's  comparison  of  Achilles  to  the  Dog-Star, 
is  very  sublime.  "  Priam  beheld  him  rushing  along 
the  plain,  shining  in  his  armor,  like  the  star  of  autumn  : 
bright  are  its  beams,  distinguished  amidst  the  multi- 
tude of  stars  in  the  dark  hour  of  night.  It  rises  in  its 
splendor ;  but  its  splendor  is  fatal  ;  betokening  to 
miserable  men  the  destroying  heat."*  The  first  ap- 
pearance of  Fingal  is,  in  like  manner,  compared  by 
Ossian  to  a  star  or  meteor.  "  Fingal,  tall  in  his  ship, 
stretched  his  bright  lance  before  him.  Terrible  was 
the  gleam  of  his  steel ;  it  was  like  the  green  meteor 
of  death,  setting  in  the  heath  of  Malmor,  when  the 
traveller  is  alone,  and  the  broad  moon  is  darkened  in 
heaven."  The  hero's  appearance  in  Homer  is  more 
magnificent ;  in  Ossian,  more  terrible. 

A  tree  cut  down,  or  overthrown  by  a  storm,  is  a 
similitude  frequent  among  poets  for  describing  the  fall 
of  a  warrior  in  battle.  Homer  employs  it  often.  But 
the  most  beautiful,  by  far,  of  his  comparisons,  founded 
on  this  object,  indeed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  the 
whole  Iliad,  is  that  on  the  death  of  Euphorbus.  "  As 
the  young  and  verdant  olive,  which  a  man  hath  reared 
with  care  in  a  lonely  field,  where  the  springs  of  water 

*  Iliad,  xxii.  26. 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  163 

bubble  around  it ;  it  is  fair  and  flourishing  ;  it  is  fan- 
ned by  the  breath  of  all  the  winds,  and  loaded  with 
white  blossoms  ;  when  the  sudden  blast  of  a  whirlwind 
descending,  roots  it  out  from  its  bed,  and  stretches  it 
on  the  dust."*  To  this,  elegant  as  it  is,  we  may  op- 
pose  the  following  simile  of  Ossian's,  relating  to  the 
death  of  the  three  sons  of  Usnoth.  "  They  fell,  like 
three  young  oaks  which  stood  alone  oji  the  hill.  The 
traveller  saw  the  lovely  trees,  and  wondered  how  they 
grew  so  lonely.  The  blast  of  the  desert  came  by  night, 
and  laid  their  green  heads  low.  Next  day  he  return- 
ed ;  but  they  were  withered,  and  the  heath  was  bare." 
Malvina's  allusion  to  the  same  object,  in  her  lamenta- 
tion over  Oscar,  is  so  exquisitely  tender,  that  I  cannot 
forbear  giving  it  a  place  also.  "  I  was  a  lovely  tree 
in  thy  presence,  Oscar  !  with  all  my  branches  round 
me.  But  thy  death  came,  like  a  blast  from  the  desert, 
and  laid  my  green  head  low.  The  spring  returned 
with  its  showers  ;  but  no  leaf  of  mine  arose."  Several 
of  Ossian's  similes,  taken  from  trees,  are  remarkably 
beautiful,  and  diversified  with  well-chosen  circum- 
stances ;  such  as  that  upon  the  death  of  Ryno  and 
Orla :  "  They  have  fallen  like  the  oak  of  the  desert ; 
when  it  lies  across  a  stream,  and  withers  in  the  wind 
of  the  mountains."  Or  that  which  Ossian  applies  to 
himself :  "  I,  like  an  ancient  oak  in  Morven,  moulder 
alone  in  my  place  ;  the  blast  hath  lopped  my  branches 
away ;  and  I  tremble  at  the  winds  of  the  north." 

As  Homer  exalts  his  heroes  by  comparing  them  to 
gods,  Ossian  makes  the  same  use  of  comparisons  taken 
from  spirits  and  ghosts.  "  Swaran  roared  in  battle, 
like  the  shrill  spirit  of  a  storm,  that  sits  dim  on  the 
clouds  of  Gormal,  and  enjoys  the  death  of  the  mari. 
ner."  His  people  gathered  round  Erragon,  "  like 

*  Iliad,  xvil  53. 


164  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

storms  around  the  ghost  of  night,  when  he  calls  them 
from  the  top  of  Morven,  and  prepares  to  pour  them  on 
the  land  of  the  stranger." — "  They  fell  before  my  son, 
like  groves  in  the  desert,  when  an  angry  ghost  rushes 
through  night,  and  takes  their  green  heads  in  his  hand." 
In  such  images,  Ossian  appears  in  his  strength ;  for 
very  seldom  have  supernatural  beings  been  painted 
with  so  much  sublimity,  and  such  force  of  imagination, 
as  by  this  poet.  Even  Homer,  great  as  he  is,  must 
yk^ld  to  him  in  similes  formed  upon  these.  Take,  for 
instance,  the  following,  which  is  the  most  remarkable 
of  this  kind  in  the  Iliad.  "  Meriones  followed  Idome- 
neus  to  battle,  like  Mars,  the  destroyer  of  men,  when 
he  rushes  to  war.  Terror,  his  beloved  son,  strong  and 
fierce,  attends  him  ;  who  fills  with  dismay  the  most 
valiant  hero.  They  come  from  Thrace  armed  against 
the  Ephyrians  and  Phlcgyans  ;  nor  do  they  regard  the 
prayers  of  either,  but  dispose  of  success  at  their  will."* 
The  idea  here  is  undoubtedly  noble,  but  observe  what 
a  figure  Ossian  sets  before  the  astonished  imagination, 
and  with  what  sublimely-terrible  circumstances  he  has 
heightened  it.  "  He  rushed,  in  the  sound  of  his  arms, 
like  the  dreadful  spirit  of  Loda,  when  he  comes  in  the 
roar  of  a  thousand  storms,  and  scatters  battles  from 
his  eyes.  He  sits  on  a  cloud  over  Lochlin's  seas.  His 
mighty  hand  is  on  his  sword.  The  wind  lifts  his 
flaming  locks.  So  terrible  was  Cuthullin  in  the  day  of 
his  fame." 

Homer's  comparisons  relate  chiefly  to  martial  sub. 
jects,  to  the  appearances  and  motions  of  armies,  the 
engagement  and  death  of  heroes,  and  the  various  in- 
cidents  of  war.  In  Ossian,  we  find  a  greater  variety 
of  other  subjects,  illustrated  by  similes,  particularly 
the  songs  of  bards,  the  beauty  of  women,  the  different 

*  Iliad,  xiii.  298 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  165 

circumstances  of  old  age,  sorrow,  and  private  distress ; 
which  give  occasion  to  much  beautiful  imagery.  What, 
for  instance,  can  be  more  delicate  and  moving,  than 
the  following  simile  of  Oithona's,  in  her  lamentation 
over  the  dishonor  she  had  suffered  ?  "  Chief  of  Stru- 
mon."  replied  the  sighing  maid,  "  why  didst  thou 
come  over  the  dark  blue  wave  to  Nuath's  mournful 
daughter  ?  Why  did  not  I  pass  away  in  secret,  like 
the  flower  of  the  rock,  that  lifts  its  fair  head  unseen, 
and  strews  its  withered  leaves  on  the  blast  ?"  The 
music  of  bards,  a  favorite  object  with  Ossian,  is  illus- 
trated by  a  variety  of  the  most  beautiful  appearances 
that  are  to  be  found  in  nature.  It  is  compared  to  the 
calm  shower  of  spring ;  to  the  dews  of  the  morning 
on  the  hill  of  roes  ;  to  the  face  of  the  blue  and  still 
lake.  Two  similes  on  this  subject  I  shall  quote,  be- 
cause they  would  do  honor  to  any  of  the  most  cele- 
brated classics.  The  one  is  :  "  Sit  thou  on  the  heath, 
O  bard !  and  let  us  hear  thy  voice ;  it  is  pleasant  as 
the  gale  of  the  spring  that  sighs  on  the  hunter's  ear, 
when  he  awakens  from  dreams  of  joy,  and  has  heard 
the  music  of  the  spirits  of  the  hill."  The  other  con- 
tains a  short  but  exquisitely  tender  image,  accompa- 
nied with  the  finest  poetical  painting.  "  The  music 
of  Carril  was  like  the  memory  of  joys  that  are  past, 
pleasant,  and  mournful  to  the  soul.  The  ghosts  of  de- 
parted bards  heard  it  from  Slimora's  side.  Soft  sounds 
spread  along  the  wood  ;  and  the  silent  valleys  of  night 
rejoice."  What  a  figure  would  such  imagery  and  such 
scenery  have  made,  had  they  been  presented  to  us 
adorned  with  the  sweetness  and  harmony  of  the  Vir- 
gilian  numbers ! 

I  have  chosen  all  along  to  compare  Ossian  with 
Homer,  rather  than  Virgil,  for  an  obvious  reason. 
There  is  a  much  nearer  correspondence  between  the 
times  and  manners  of  the  two  former  poets.  Both 


166  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

wrote  in  an  early  period  of  society  ;  both  are  origin, 
als  ;  both  are  distinguished  by  simplicity,  sublimity, 
and  fire.  The  correct  elegances  of  Virgil,  his  artful 
imitation  of  Homer,  the  Roman  stateliness  which  he 
everywhere  maintains,  admit  no  parallel  with  the  ab- 
rupt boldness  and  enthusiastic  warmth  of  the  Celtic 
bard.  In  one  article,  indeed,  there  is  a  resembance. 
Virgil  is  more  tender  than  Homer,  and  thereby  agrees 
more  with  Ossian ;  with  this  difference,  that  the  feel- 
ings of  the  one  are  more  gentle  and  polished — those 
of  the  other  more  strong :  the  tenderness  of  Virgil 
softens — that  of  Ossian  dissolves  and  overcomes  the 
heart. 

A  resemblance  may  be  sometimes  observed  between 
Ossian's  comparisons  and  those  employed  by  the  sa- 
cred writers.  They  abound  much  in  this  figure,  and 
they  use  it  with  the  utmost  propriety.  The  imagery 
of  Scripture  exhibits  a  soil  and  climate  altogether  dif- 
ferent from  those  of  Ossian  :  a  warmer  country,  a  more 
smiling  face  of  nature,  the  arts  of  agriculture  and  of 
rural  life  much  farther  advanced.  The  wine-press  and 
the  threshing-floor  are  often  presented  to  us ;  the 
cedar  and  the  palm-tree,  the  fragrance  of  perfumes 
the  voice  of  the  turtle,  and  the  beds  of  lilies.  The 
similes  are,  like  Ossian's,  generally  short,  touching  on 
one  point  of  resemblance,  rather  than  spread  out  into 
little  episodes.  In  the  following  example  may  be  per- 
ceived what  inexpressible  grandeur  poetry  receives 
from  the  intervention  of  the  Deity.  "  The  nations 
shall  rush  like  the  rushing  of  many  waters  ;  but  God 
shall  rebuke  them,  and  they  shall  fly  far  off,  and  shall 
be  chased  as  the  chaff  of  the  mountains  before  the 
wind,  and  like  the  down  of  the  thistle  before  the  whirl- 
wind."* 

*  Isaiah,  xvii.  13 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  167 

Besides  formal  comparisons,  the  poetry  of  Ossian  is 
embellished  with  many  beautiful  metaphors  ;  such  as 
that  remarkably  fine  one  applied  to  Deugala  :  "  She 
was  covered  with  the  light  of  beauty  ;  but  her  heart 
was  the  house  of  pride."  This  mode  of  expression, 
which  suppresses  the  mark  of  comparison,  and  substi- 
tutes a  figured  description  in  room  of  the  object  de- 
scribed, is  a  great  enlivener  of  style.  It  denotes  that 
glow  and  rapidity  of  fancy,  which,  without  pausing 
to  form  a  regular  simile,  paints  the  object  at  one  stroke. 
"  Thou  art  to  me  the  beam  of  the  east,  rising  in  a  land 
unknown." — "  In  peace,  thou  art  the  gale  of  spring  ; 
in  war,  the  mountain  storm." — "  Pleasant  be  thy  rest, 
O  lovely  beam  !  soon  hast  thou  set  on  our  hills  !  The 
steps  of  thy  departure  were  stately,  like  the  moon  on 
the  blue  trembling  wave.  But  thou  hast  left  us  in 
darkness,  first  of  the  maids  of  Lutha  ! — Soon  hast  thou 
set,  Malvina  !  but  thou  risest,  like  the  beam  of  the  east, 
among  the  spirits  of  thy  friends,  where  they  sit  in  their 
stormy  halls,  the  chambers  of  the  thunder."  This  is 
correct,  and  finely  supported.  But  in  the  following 
instance,  the  metaphor,  though  very  beautiful  at  the 
beginning,  becomes  imperfect  before  it  closes,  by  being 
improperly  mixed  with  the  literal  sense.  "  Trathal 
went  forth  with  the  stream  of  his  people  :  but  they  met 
a  rock  ;  Fingal  stood  unmoved  ;  broken,  they  rolled 
back  from  his  side.  ,  Nor  did  they  roll  in  safety  ;  the 
spear  of  the  king  pursued  their  flight." 

The  hyperbole  is  a  figure  which  we  might  expect  to 
find  often  employed  by  Ossian ;  as  the  undisciplined 
imagination  of  early  ages  generally  prompts  exaggera- 
tion, and  carries  its  objects  to  excess ;  whereas  longer 
experience,  and  farther  progress  in  the  arts  of  life, 
chasten  men's  ideas  and  expressions.  Yet  Ossian's 
hyperboles  appear  not,  to  me,  either  so  frequent  or  so 
harsh  as  might  at  first  have  been  looked  for  ;  an  ad- 


168  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

vantage  owing,  no  doubt,  to  the  more  cultivated  state 
to  which,  as  was  before  shown,  poetry  subsisted  among 
the  ancient  Celtae,  than  among  most  other  barbarous 
nations.  One  of  the  most  exaggerated  descriptions  in 
the  whole  work,  is  what  meets  us  at  the  beginning  of 
Fingal,  where  the  scout  makes  his  report  to  Cuthullia 
of  the  landing  of  the  foe.  But  this  is  so  far  from  de- 
serving censure,  that  it  merits  praise,  as  being  on  that 
occasion  natural  and  proper.  The  scout  arrives,  trem. 
bling  and  full  of  fears  ;  and  it  is  well  known  that  no 
passion  disposes  men  to  hyperbolize  more  than  terror. 
It  both  annihilates  themselves  in  their  own  apprehen- 
sion, and  magnifies  every  object  which  they  view 
through  the  medium  of  a  troubled  imagination.  Hence 
all  those  indistinct  images  of  formidable  greatness,  the 
natural  marks  of  a  disturbed  and  confused  mind,  which 
occur  in  Moran's  description  of  Swaran's  appearance, 
and  in  his  relation  of  the  conference  which  they  held 
together ;  not  unlike  the  report  which  the  affrighted 
Jewish  spies  made  to  their  leader,  of  the  land  of  Ca- 
naan. "  The  land  through  which  we  have  gone  to 
search  it,  is  a  land  that  eateth  up  the  inhabitants  there- 
of ;  and  all  the  people  that  we  saw  in  it  are  men  of  a 
great  stature  :  and  there  saw  we  giants,  the  sons  of 
Anak,  which  come  of  the  giants ;  and  we  were  in  our 
own  sight  as  grasshoppers,  and  so  we  were  in  their 
sight."* 

With  regard  to  personifications,  I  formerly  observed 
that  Ossian  was  sparing,  and  I  accounted  for  his  being 
so.  Allegorical  personages  he  has  none ;  and  their 
absence  is  not  to  be  regretted.  For  the  intermixture 
of  those  shadowy  beings,  which  have  not  the  support 
even  of  mythological  or  legendary  belief,  with  human 
actors,  seldom  produces  a  goo  I  effect.  The  fiction 

*  Numbers,  xiii.  32,  33 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  160 

becomes  too  visible  and  fantastic  ;  and  overthrows  thai 
impression  of  reality,  which  the  probable  recital  of  hu- 
man actions  is  calculated  to  make  upon  the  mind.  In 
the  serious  and  pathetic  scenes  of  Ossian,  especially, 
allegorical  characters  would  have  been  as  much  out  of 
place  as  in  tragedy  ;  serving  only  unseasonably  to 
amuse  the  fancy,  whilst  they  stopped  the  current  and 
weakened  the  force  of  passion. 

With  apostrophes,  or  addresses  to  persons  absent  or 
dead,  which  have  been  in  all  ages  the  language  of  pas- 
sion,  our  poet  abounds  ;  and  they  are  among  his  high- 
est beauties.  Witness  the  apostrophe,  in  the  first  book 
of  Fingal,  to  the  maid  of  Inistore,  whose  lover  had 
fallen  in  battle  ;  and  that  inimitably  fine  one  of  Cuthul. 
lin  to  Bragela,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  same  book. 
He  commands  the  harp  to  be  struck  in  her  praise  j  and 
the  mention  of  Bragela's  name  immediately  suggesting 
to  him  a  crowd  of  tender  ideas — "  Dost  thou  raise  thy 
fair  face  from  the  rocks,"  he  exclaims,  "  to  find  the 
sails  of  Cuthullin  ?  The  sea  is  rolling  far  distant,  and 
its  white  foam  shall  deceive  thee  for  my  sails."  And 
now  his  imagination  being  wrought  up  to  conceive  her 
as,  at  that  moment,  really  in  this  situation,  he  becomes 
afraid  of  the  harm  she  may  receive  from  the  inclem- 
ency of  the  night ;  and  with  an  enthusiasm  happy  and 
affecting,  though  beyond  the  cautious  strain  of  modern 
poetry,  "  Retire,"  he  proceeds,  "  retire,  for  it  is  night, 
my  love,  and  the  dark  winds  sigh  in  thy  hair.  Retire  to 
the  hall  of  my  feasts,  and  think  of  the  times  that  are 
past :  for  I  will  not  return  until  the  storm  of  war  has 
ceased.  O,  Connal !  speak  of  wars  and  arms,  and 
send  her  from  my  mind ;  for  lovely  with  her  raven 
hair  is  the  white-bosomed  daughter  of  Sorglan."  This 
breathes  all  the  native  spirit  of  passion  and  tenderness. 

The  addresses  to  the  sun,  to  the  moon,  and  to  the 
evening  star,  must  draw  the  attention  of  every  reader 
15 


170  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

of  taste,  as  among  the  most  splendid  ornaments  of  this 
collection.  The  beauties  of  each  are  too  great  and  too 
obvious  to  need  any  particular  comment.  In  one  pas- 
sage only  of  the  address  to  the  moon,  there  appears 
some  obscurity.  "  Whither  dost  thou  retire  from  thy 
course  when  the  darkness  of  thy  countenance  grows  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  hall  like  Ossian  ?  Dwellest  thou  in  the 
shadow  of  grief?  Have  thy  sisters  fallen  from  heaven  ? 
Are  they  who  rejoiced  with  thee,  at  night,  no  more  ? 
Yes,  they  have  fallen,  fair  light !  and  thou  dost  often 
retire  to  mourn."  We  may  be  at  a  loss  to  compre- 
hend, at  first  view,  the  ground  of  those  speculations  of 
Odsian  concerning  the  moon  :  but  when  all  the  circum- 
stances are  attended  to,  they  will  appear  to  flow  natu- 
rally from  the  present  situation  of  his  mind.  A  mind 
under  the  dominion  of  any  strong  passion,  tinctures 
with  its  own  disposition  every  object  which  it  beholds. 
The  old  bard,  with  his  heart  bleeding  for  the  loss  of 
all  his  friends,  is  meditating  on  the  different  phases  of 
the  moon.  Her  waning  and  darkness  present  to  his 
melancholy  imagination  the  image  of  sorrow ;  and 
presently  the  idea  arises,  and  is  indulged,  that  like 
himself,  she  retires  to  mourn  over  the  loss  of  other 
moons,  or  of  stars,  whom  he  calls  her  sisters,  and  fan- 
cies to  have  once  rejoiced  with  her  at  night,  now  fallen 
from  heaven.  Darkness  suggested  the  idea  of  mourn- 
ing, and  mourning  suggested  nothing  so  naturally  to 
Ossian  as  the  death  of  beloved  friends.  An  instance 
precisely  similar,  of  this  influence  of  passion,  may  be 
seen  in  a  passage,  which  has  always  been  admired,  of 
Shakspeare's  King  Lear.  The  old  man,  on  the  point  of 
distraction  through  the  inhumanity  of  his  daughters,  sees 
Edgar  appear,  disguised  like  a  beggar  and  a  madman. 

Lear.  Didst  thou  give  all  to  thy  daughters  1   And  art  thou  coma 

to  this  1 
Couldst  thou  leave  nothing  1  Didst  thou  give  them  all  1 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  171 

Kent.  He  hath  no  daughters,  sir. 

Lear.  Death,  traitor  !  nothing  could  have  subdued  nature 
To  such  a  lowiiess,  but  his  unkind  daughters. 

The  apostrophe  to  the  winds,  in  the  opening  of  Dar- 
thula,  is  in  the  highest  spirit  of  poetry.  "  But  the 
winds  deceive  thee,  O  Dar-thula  !  and  deny  the  woody 
Etha  to  thy  sails.  These  are  not  thy  mountains, 
Nathos,  nor  is  that  the  roar  of  thy  climbing  waves. 
The  halls  of  Cairbar  are  near,  and  the  towers  of  the 
foe  lift  their  heads.  Where  have  ye  been,  ye  southern 
winds  !  when  the  sons  of  my  love  were  deceived  ?  But 
ye  have  been  sporting  on  plains,  and  pursuing  the  this- 
tle's beard.  O  that  ye  had  been  rustling  in  the  sails 
of  Nathos,  till  the  hills  of  Etha  rose  !  till  they  rose  in 
their  clouds,  and  saw  their  coming  chief."  This  pas- 
sage is  remarkable  for  the  resemblance  it  bears  to  an 
expostulation  with  the  wood  nymphs,  on  their  absence 
at  a  critical  time  ;  which,  as  a  favorite  poetical  idea, 
Virgil  has  copied  from  Theocritus,  and  Milton  has  very 
happily  imitated  from  both. 

Where  were  ye,  nymphs  !  when  the  remorseless  deep 

Clos'd  o'er  the  head  of  your  lov'd  Lycidas  1 

For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 

Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  he  ! 

Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona,  high, 

Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream. — Lycid 

Having  now  treated  fully,  of  Ossian's  talents,  with 
respect  to  description  and  imagery,  it  only  remains  to 
make  some  observations  on  his  sentiments.  No  sen- 
tinents  can  be  beautiful  without  being  proper ;  that  is, 
suited  to  the  character  and  situation  of  those  who  utter 
them  In  this  respect  Ossian  is  as  correct  as  most 
writers.  His  characters,  as  above  described,  are,  in 
general,  well  supported  ;  which  could  not  have  been 
the  case,  had  the  sentiments  been  unnatural  or  out  of 
place.  A  variety  of  personages,  of  different  ages,  sexes, 
and  conditions,  are  introduced  into  his  poems  j  and 


172  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

they  speak  and  act  with  a  propriety  of  sentiment  and 
behavior  which  it  is  surprising  to  find  in  so  rude  an  age 
Let  the  poem  of  Dar-thula,  throughout,  be  taken  as  an 
example. 

But  it  is  not  enough  that  sentiments  be  natural  and 
proper.  In  order  to  acquire  any  high  degree  of  poeti- 
cal merit,  they  must  also  be  sublime  and  pathetic. 

The  sublime  is  not  confined  to  sentiment  alone.  It 
belongs  to  description  also  ;  and  whether  in  descrip- 
tion or  in  sentiment,  imports  such  ideas  presented  to 
the  mind,  as  raise  it  to  an  uncommon  degree  of  eleva- 
tion, and  fill  it  with  admiration  and  astonishment.  This 
is  the  highest  effect  either  of  eloquence  or  poetry  ;  and, 
to  produce  this  effect,  requires  a  genius  glowing  wilh 
the  strongest  and  warmest  conception  of  some  object, 
awful,  great,  or  magnificent.  That  this  character  of 
genius  belongs  to  Ossian,  may,  I  think,  sufficiently  ap- 
pear from  many  of  the  passages  I  have  already  had 
occasion  to  quote.  To  produce  more  instances  were 
superfluous.  If  the  engagement  of  Fingal  with  the 
spirit  of  Loda,  in  Carric-thura ;  if  the  encounters  of 
the  armies,  in  Fingal ;  if  the  address  to  the  sun,  in 
Carthon  ;  if  the  similes  founded  upon  ghosts  and  spirits 
of  the  night,  all  formerly  mentioned,  be  not  admitted 
as  examples,  and  illustrious  ones  too,  of  the  true  poeti- 
cal sublime,  I  confess  myself  entirely  ignorant  of  this 
quality  in  writing. 

All  the  circumstances,  indeed,  of  Ossian's  composi- 
tion, are  favorable  to  the  sublime,  more  perhaps  than 
to  any  other  species  of  beauty.  Accuracy  and  correct- 
ness, artfully  connected  narration,  exact  method  and 
proportion  of  parts,  we  may  look  for  in  polished  times. 
The  gay  and  the  beautiful  will  appear  to  more  advan- 
tage in  the  midst  of  smiling  scenery  and  pleasurable 
themes  ;  but,  amidst  the  rude  scenes  of  nature,  amidst 
rocks  and  torrents,  and  whirlwinds  and  battles,  dwells 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  173 

• 

the  sublime.  It  is  the  thunder  and  the  lightning  of 
genius.  It  is  the  offspring  of  nature,  not  of  art.  It  is 
negligent  of  all  the  lesser  graces,  and  perfectly  con- 
sistent  with  a  certain  noble  disorder.  It  associates 
naturally  with  that  grave  and  solemn  spirit  which  dis- 
tinguishes our  author.  For  the  sublime  is  an  awful 
and  serious  emotion  ;  and  is  heightened  by  all  the 
images  of  trouble,  and  terror,  and  darkness. 

Ipse  pater,  media  nimborum  in  nocte,  corusca 

t  ulmina  molitur  dextra ;  quo  maxima  motu 

Terra  tremit ;  fugere  ferae  ;  et  mortalia  corda 

Per  gentes,  huiiulis  &travit  pavor ;  ille,  Hagranti 

Aut  Atho,  aut  llhodopen,  aut  alta  Ceraunia  telo 

Dejicit. Virg.  Georg.  i. 

Simplicity  and  conciseness  are  never-failing  charac- 
teristics of  the  style  of  a  sublime  writer.  He  rests  on 
the  majesty  of  his  sentiments,  not  on  the  pomp  of  his 
expressions.  The  main  secret  of  being  sublime  is  to 
say  great  things  in  few,  and  in  plain  words  :  for  every 
superfluous  decoration  degrades  a  sublime  idea.  The 
mind  rises  and  swells,  when  a  lofty  description  or  sen- 
timent is  presented  to  it  in  its  native  form.  But  no 
sooner  does  the  poet  attempt  to  spread  out  this  senti- 
ment, or  description,  and  to  deck  it  round  and  round 
with  glittering  ornaments,  than  the  mind  begins  to  full 
from  its  high  elevation  ;  the  transport  is  over  ;  the 
beautiful  may  remain,  but  the  sublime  is  gone.  Hence 
the  concise  and  simple  style  of  Ossian  gives  great  ad- 
vantage to  his  sublime  conceptions,  and  assists  them  in 
seizing  the  imagination  with  full  power. 

Sublimity,  as  belonging  to  sentiment,  coincides,  in  a 
great  measure,  with  magnanimity,  heroism,  and  gener- 
osity of  sentiment.  Whatever  discovers  human  nature 
in  its  greatest  elevation  ;  whatever  bespeaks  a  high 
effort  of  soul,  or  shows  a  mind  superior  to  pleasures, 
to  dangers,  and  to  death,  forms  what  may  be  called 
the  moral  of  sentimental  sublime.  For  this  Ossian  is 
15* 


174  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

eminently  distinguished.  No  poet  maintains  a  higher 
tone  of  virtuous  and  noble  sentiment  throughout  all  his 
works.  Particularly  in  all  the  sentiments  of  Fingal 
there  is  a  grandeur  and  loftiness,  proper  to  swell  the 
mind  with  the  highest  ideas  of  human  perfection. 
Wherever  he  appears,  we  behold  the  hero.  The  ob- 
jects which  he  pursues  are  always  truly  great :  to  bend 
the  proud ;  to  protect  the  injured ;  to  defend  his  friends  ; 
to  overcome  his  enemies  by  generosity  more  than  by 
force.  A  portion  of  the  same  spirit  actuates  all  the 
other  heroes.  Valor  reigns ;  but  it  is  a  generous 
valor,  void  of  cruelty,  animated  by  honor,  not  by  hatred. 
We  behold  no  debasing  passions  among  Fingal 's  war- 
riors ;  no  spirit  of  avarice  or  of  insult ;  but  a  perpetual 
contention  for  fame  ;  a  desire  of  being  distinguished 
and  remembered  for  gallant  actions  ;  a  love  of  justice  ; 
and  a  zealous  attachment  to  their  friends  and  their 
country.  Such  is  the  strain  of  sentiment  in  the  works 
of  Ossian. 

But  the  sublimity  of  moral  sentiments,  if  they  want- 
ed the  softening  of  the  tender,  would  be  in  hazard  of 
giving  a  hard  and  stiff  air  to  poetry.  It  is  not  enough 
to  admire.  Admiration  is  a  cold  feeling,  in  compari- 
son of  that  deep  interest  which  the  heart  takes  in  ten- 
der and  pathetic  scenes  ;  where,  by  a  mysterious 
attachment  to  the  objects  of  compassion,  we  are  pleas- 
ed and  delighted,  even  whilst  we  mourn.  With  scenes 
of  mis  kind  Ossian  abounds ;  and  his  high  merit  in 
there  is  incontestible.  He  may  be  blamed  for  draw- 
ing tears  too  often  from  our  eyes  ;  but  that  he  has  the 
power  of  commanding  them,  I  believe  no  man,  who 
has  the  least  sensibility,  will  question.  The  general 
character  of  his  poetry  is  the  heroic  mixed  with  the 
elegiac  strain ;  admiration  tempered  with  pity.  Ever 
foi-d  of  giving,  as  he  expresses  it,  "  the  joy  of  grief," 
it  is  visible  that,  on  all  moving  subjects,  he  delights  to 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  175 

exert  his  genius ;  and,  accordingly,  never  were  there 
finer  pathetic  situations  than  what  his  works  present. 
His  great  art  in  managing  them  lies  in  giving  vent  to 
the  simple  and  natural  emotions  of  the  heart.  We 
mee*  with  no  exaggerated  declamation  ;  no  subtile  re- 
finements on  sorrow  ;  no  substitution  of  description  in 
place  of  passion.  Ossian  felt  strongly  himself;  and 
the  heart,  when  uttering  its  native  language,  never  fails, 
by  powerful  sympathy,  to  affect  the  heart.  A  great 
variety  of  examples  might  be  produced.  We  need 
only  open  the  book  to  find  them  everywhere.  What, 
for  instance,  can  be  more  moving  than  the  lamenta- 
tions of  Oithona,  after  her  misfortune  ?  Gaul,  the  son 
of  Morni,  her  lover,  ignorant  of  what  she  had  suffered, 
comes  to  her  rescue.  Their  meeting  is  tender  in  the 
Highest  degree.  He  proposes  to  engage  her  foe,  in 
single  combat,  and  gives  her  in  charge  what  she  is  to 
do  if  he  himself  shall  fall.  "  And  shall  the  daughter 
of  Nuath  live  ?"  she  replied,  with  a  bursting  sigh. 
"  Shall  I  live  in  Tromathon,  and  the  son  of  Morni 
low  ?  My  heart  is  not  of  that  rock  ;  nor  my  soul  care- 
less as  that  sea,  which  lifts  its  blue  waves  to  every 
wind,  and  rolls  beneath  the  storm.  The  blast,  which 
shall  lay  thee  low,  shall  spread  the  branches  of  Oithona 
on  earth.  We  shall  wither  together,  son  of  car-borne 
Morni !  The  narrow  house  is  pleasant  to  me,  and  the 
gray  stone  of  the  dead  ;  for  never  more  will  I  leave 
thy  rocks,  sea-surrounded  Tromathon  ! — Chief  of  Stj  u- 
mon  !  why  comest  thou  over  the  waves  to  Nuath's 
mournful  daughter  ?  Why  did  I  not  pass  away  in 
secret,  like  the  flower  of  the  rocks  that  lifts  its  fair 
head  unseen,  and  strews  its  withered  leaves  on  the 
blast  ?  Why  didst  thou  come,  O  Gaul !  to  hear  my 
departing  sigh  ? — O,  had  I  dwelt  at  Duvranna,  in  the 
bright  beam  of  my  fame  !  Then  had  my  years  come 
on  with  joy :  and  the  virgins  would  bless  my  steps. 


170  CRITICAL  .DISSERTATION 

But  I  fall  in  youth,  son  of  Morni !  and  my  father  »- 1  I 
blush  in  his  hall !" 

Oithona  mourns  like  a  woman  :  in  Cuthullin's  ex- 
pressions of  grief  after  his  defeat,  we  behold  the  senti- 
ments of  a  hero — generous,  but  desponding.  The  sit- 
uation is  remarkably  fine.  Cuthullin,  roused  from  hia 
cave  by  the  noise  of  battle,  sees  Fingal  victorious  in 
the  field.  He  is  described  as  kindling  at  the  sight. 
"  His  hand  is  on  the  sword  of  his  fathers  ;  his  red-roll- 
ing eyes  on  the  foe.  He  thrice  attempted  to  rush  to 
battle  ;  and  thrice  did  Connal  stop  him  ;"  suggesting 
that  Fingal  was  routing  the  foe  ;  and  that  he  ought 
not,  by  the  show  of  superfluous  aid,  to  deprive  the  king 
of  any  part  of  the  honor  of  a  victory,  which  was  owing 
to  him  alone.  Cuthullin  yields  to  this  generous  senti- 
ment ;  but  we  see  it  stinging  him  to  the  heart  with  the 
sense  of  his  own  disgrace.  "  Then,  Carril,  go,"  re- 
plied the  chief,  "  and  greet  the  king  of  Morven.  When 
Lochlin  falls  away  like  a  stream  after  rain,  and  the 
noise  of  the  battle  is  over,  then  be  thy  voice  sweet  in 
his  ear,  to  praise  the  king  of  swords.  Give  him  the 
sword  of  Caithbat ;  for  Cuthullin  is  worthy  no  more  to 
lift  the  arms  of  his  fathers.  But,  O  ye  ghosts  of  the 
lonely  Cromla  !  ye  souls  of  chiefs  that  are  no  more  ' 
be  ye  the  companions  of  Cuthullin,  and  talk  to  him  in 
the  cave  of  his  sorrow.  For  never  more  shall  I  be  re- 
nowned among  the  mighty  in  the  land.  I  am  like  a 
beam  that  has  shone  :  like  a  mist  that  has  fled  away  ; 
when  the  blast  of  the  morning  came,  and  brightened 
.he  shaggy  side  of  the  hill.  Connal  !  talk  of  arms  no 
more  :  departed  is  my  fame.  My  sighs  shall  be  on 
Cromla's  wind  ;  till  my  footsteps  cease  to  be  seen. 
And  thou,  white-bosomed  Bragela  !  mourn  over  the 
fall  of  my  fame  :  for  vanquished,  I  will  never  return  to 
Ihee,  thou  sunbeam  of  Dunscaich  !" 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  177 

— JSstuat  ingens 
Uno  in  corde  pudor,  luctusque,  et  conscia  Virtus. 

Besides  such  extended  pathetic  scenes,  Ossian  fre- 
quently pierces  the  heart  by  a  single  unexpected  stroke. 
When  Oscar  fell  in  battle,  "  No  father  mourned  his 
son  slain  in  youth ;  no  brother,  his  brother  of  love  ; 
they  fell  without  tears,  for  the  chief  of  the  people  was 
low."  In  the  admirable  interview  of  Hector  with  Andro 
mache,  in  the  sixth  Iliad,  the  circumstance  of  the  child 
in  his  nurse's  arms,  has  often  been  remarked  as  adding 
much  to  the  tenderness  of  the  scene.  In  the  following 
passage,  relating  to  the  death  of  Cuthullin,  we  find  a 
circumstance  that  must  strike  the  imagination  with  still 
greater  force.  "  And  is  the  son  of  Semo  fallen  ?" 
said  Carril,  with  a  sigh.  "  Mournful  are  Tura's  walls, 
and  sorrow  dwells  at  Dunscaich.  Thy  spouse  is  left 
alone  in  her  youth  ;  the  son  of  thy  love  is  alone.  He 
shall  come  to  Bragela,  and  ask  her  why  she  weeps  ? 
He  shall  lift  his  eyes  to  the  wall,  and  see  his  father's 
sword.  Whose  sword  is  that  ?  he  will  say  ;  and  the 
soul  of  his  mother  is  sad."  Soon  after  Fingal  had 
shown  all  the  grief  of  a  father's  heart  for  Ryno,  one 
of  his  sons,  fallen  in  battle,  he  is  calling,  after  his  ac- 
customed manner,  his  sons  to  the  chase.  "  Call,"  says 
he,  "  Fillan  and  Ryno. — But  he  is  not  here. — My  son 
rests  on  the  bed  of  death."  This  unexpected  start  of 
anguish  is  worthy  of  the  highest  tragic  poet. 

If  she  come  in,  she'll  sure  speak  to  my  wife — 

My  wife ! — my  wife  ! — What  wife  1 — I  have  no  wife — 

Oh,  insupportable  !  Oh,  heavy  hour  ! Othello. 

The  contrivance  of  the  incident  in  both  poets  is 
similar  :  but  the  circumstances  are  varied  with  judg- 
ment. Othello  dwells  upon  the  name  of  wife,  when  it 
had  fallen  from  him,  with  the  confusion  and  horror  of 
one  tortured  with  guilt.  Fingal,  with  the  dignity  of  a 
hero,  corrects  himself,  and  suppresses  his  rising  grief. 


178  CRITICAL  DISSERTATION 

The  contrast  which  Ossian  frequently  makes  between 
his  present  and  his  former  state,  diffuses  over  his  whole 
poetry  a  solemn  pathetic  air,  which  cannot  fail  to  make 
impression  on  every  heart.  The  conclusion  of  the 
songs  of  Selmais  particularly  calculated  for  this  purpose. 
Nothing  can  be  more  poetical  and  tender,  or  can  leave 
upon  the  mind  a  stronger  and  more  affecting  idea  of 
the  venerable  and  aged  bard.  "  Such  were  the  wcrds 
of  the  bards  in  the  days  of  the  song ;  when  the  king 
heard  the  music  of  harps,  and  the  tales  of  other  times. 
The  chiefs  gathered  from  all  their  hills,  and  heard  the 
lovely  sound.  They  praised  the  voice  of  Cona,*  the 
first  among  a  thousand  bards.  But  age  is  now  on  my 
tongue,  and  my  soul  has  failed.  I  hear,  sometimes, 
the  ghosts  of  bards,  and  learn  their  pleasant  song. 
But  memory  fails  on  my  mind  ;  I  hear  the  call  of 
years.  They  say,  as  they  pass  along,  Why  does 
Ossian  sing  ?  Soon  shall  he  lie  in  the  narrow  house, 
and  no  bard  shall  raise  his  fame.  Roll  on,  ye  dark- 
brown  years  !  for  ye  bring  no  joy  in  your  course.  Let 
the  tomb  open  to  Ossian,  for  his  strength  has  failed. 
The  sons  of  the  song  are  gone  to  rest.  My  voice  re- 
mains, like  a  blast,  that  roars  lonely  on  the  sea-rur- 
rounded  rock,  after  the  winds  are  laid.  The  dark  moss 
whistles  there,  and  the  distant  mariner  sees  the  waving 
trees." 

Upon  the  whole,  if  to  feel  strongly,  and  to  describe 
naturally,  be  the  two  chief  ingredients  in  poetical  ge- 
nius, Ossian  must,  after  fair  examination,  be  held  to 
possess  that  genius  in  a  high  degree.  The  question  is 
not,  whether  a  few  improprieties  may  be  pointed  out  in 
his  works  ? — whether  this  or  that  passage  might  not 
have  been  worked  up  with  more  art  and  skill,  by  some 
writer  of  happier  times  ?  A  thousand  such  cold  ana 

«  Ossian  himself  is  poetically  called  the  voice  of  Cona. 


OF  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  179 

frivolous  criticisnrjs  are  altogether  indecisive  as  to  his 
genuine  merit.  But  has  he  the  spirit,  the  fire  the  in- 
spiration of  a  poet  ?  Does  he  utter  the  voice  of  nature  ? 
Does  he  elevate  by  his  sentiments  1  Does  he  interest 
by  his  description  ?  Does  he  paint  to  the  heart  as  well 
as  to  the  fancy  ?  Does  he  make  his  readers  glow,  and 
tremble,  and  weep  ?  These  are  the  great  character- 
istics of  true  poetry.  Where  these  are  found,  he  must 
be  a  minute  critic,  indeed,  who  can  dwell  upon  slight 
defects.  A  few  beauties  of  this  high  kind  transcend 
whole  volumes  of  faultless  mediocrity.  Uncouth  and 
abrupt  Ossian  may  sometimes  appear,  by  reason  of  his 
conciseness  ;  but  he  is  sublime,  he  is  patketic,  in  an 
eminent  degree.  If  he  has  not  the  extensive  know- 
ledge, the  regular  dignity  of  narration,  the  fulness  and 
accuracy  of  description,  which  we  find  in  Homer  and 
Virgil,  yet  in  strength  of  imagination,  in  grandeur  of 
sentiment,  in  native  majesty  of  passion,  he  is  fully 
their  equal.  If  he  flows  not  always  like  a  clear  stream, 
yet  he  breaks  forth  often  like  a  torrent  of  fire.  Of  art, 
too,  he  is  far  from  being  destitute  ;  and  his  imagination 
is  remarkable  for  delicacy  as  well  as  strength.  Seldom 
or  never  is  he  either  trifling  or  tedious  ;  and  if  he  be 
thought  too  melancholy,  yet  he  is  always  moral. 
Though  his  merit  were  in  other  respects  much  less 
than  it  is,  this  alone  ought  to  entitle  him  to  high  regard, 
that  his  writings  are  remarkably  favorable  to  virtue. 
They  awake  the  tenderest  sympathies,  and  inspire  the 
most  generous  emotions.  No  reader  can  rise  from  him 
without  being  wanned  with  the  sentiments  of  human- 
ity,  virtue,  and  honor. 

Though  unacquainted  with  the  original  language, 
there  is  no  one  but  must  judge  the  translation  to  de- 
serve the  highest  praise,  on  account  of  its  beauty  and 
elegance.  Of  its  faithfulness  and  accuracy,  I  have 
been  assured  by  persons  skilled  in  the  Gaelic  tongue, 


190  CRITICAL   DISSERTATION 

who  from  their  youth  were  acquainted  with  many  of 
these  poems  of  Ossian.  To  transfuse  such  spirited 
and  fervid  ideas  from  one  language  into  another ;  to 
translate  literally,  and  yet  with  such  a  glow  of  poetry  ; 
to  keep  alive  so  much  passion,  and  support  so  much 
dignity  throughout ;  is  one  of  the  most  difficult  works 
of  genius,  and  proves  the  translator  to  have  ^een  ani- 
mated with  no  small  portion  of  Ossian's  spirit. 

The  measured  prose  which  he  has  employed,  pos- 
sesses considerable  advantages  above  any  sort  of  ver- 
sification he  could  have  chosen.  While  it  pleases  and 
fills  the  ear  with  a  variety  of  harmonious  cadences, 
being,  at  the  same  time,  freer  from  constraint  in  the 
choice  and  arrangement  of  words,  it  allows  the  spirit 
of  the  original  to  be  exhibited,  with  more  justness, 
force,  and  simplicity.  Elegant,  however,  and  master- 
ly, as  Mr.  Macpherson's  translation  is,  we  must  never 
forget,  whilst  we  read  it,  that  we  are  putting  the  merit 
of  the  original  to  a  severe  test.  For  we  are  examining 
a  poet  stripped  of  his  native  dress ;  divested  of  the 
harmony  of  his  own  numbers.  We  know  how  much 
grace  and  energy'the  works  of  the  Greek  and  Latin 
poets  receive  from  the  charm  of  versification  in  their 
original  languages.  If  then,  destitute  of  this  advan- 
tage, exhibited  in  a  literal  version,  Ossian  still  has 
power  to  please  as  a  poet ;  and  not  to  please  only,  but 
often  to  command,  to  transport,  to  melt  the  heart ;  we 
may  very  safely  infer  that  his  productions  are  the  off- 
spring of  a  true  and  uncommon  genius  ;  and  we  may 
!x>ldly  assign  him  a  place  among  those  whose  works 
»re  to  last  for  ages. 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  181 


NOTE.  (p.  93.) 

Pugnavimus  ensibus 
Haud  pos  t  longum  tempus 
Cum  in  Gotlandia  accessimus 
Ad  seroentis  immensi  necem 
Tune  impetravimus  Thoram 
Ex  hoc  vocarunt  me  virum 
Quod  serpentem  transfodi 
Hirsutam  braccam  ob  illam  caedem 
Cuspide  ictum  intuli  in  colubrum 
Ferro  lucidorum  stupendiorum. 

Multum  juvenis  fui  quando  acquisivimus 

Orientem  versus  in  Oreonico  freto 

Vulnerum  amnes  avidse  ferae 

Et  flavipedi  avi 

Accepiinus  ibidem  sonuerunt 

Ad  sublimes  galeas 

Dura  ferra  magnam  escam 

Omnis  erat  oceanus  vulnus 

Vadavit  corvus  in  sanguine  caesorum. 

Alte  lulimm  tune  lanceas 

Quando  viginti  annos  numeravimus 

Et  celebrem  laudem  comparavimus  passim 

Vicimus  octo  barones 

In  oriente  ante  Dimini  portum 

Aquilae  impetravimus  tune  suffieientoni 

Hospitii  sumptum  in  ilia  strage 

Svdor  decidit  in  vulnerum 

Uceano  perdidit  exercitus  aetatem. 

Pugnse  facta  copia 

Cum  Helsingianos  postulavimus 

Ad  aulam  Odini 

Naves  cfireximus  in  fstium  Vistula 


1854  CRITICAL  DISSERTAT10H 

Mucro  potuit  turn  mordere 
Omnis  erat  vulnus  unda 
Terra  rubefacta  calido 
Frendebat  gladius  in  loricas 
Gladius  findebat  clypeos. 

Memini  neminem  tune  fugisse 
Priusquam  in  navibus 
Heraudus  in  bello  caderet 
Non  findit  navibus 
Alius  baro  prsestantior 
Mare  ad  portum 
In  navibus  longis  post  ilium 
Sic  attulit  princeps  passim 
Alacre  in  bellum  cor. 

Exercitus  abjecit  clypeos 
Cum  hasta  volavit 
Ardua  ad  virorum  pectora 
Momordit  Scarforum  cautes 
Cladius  in  pugna 
Sanguineus  erat  clypeus 
Antequam  Rafno  rex  caderet 
Fluxit  ex  virorum  capitibus 
Calidas  in  loricas  sudor. 

Habere  potuerunt  turn  corvi 
Ante  Indirorum  insulas 
Sufficientem  prsedam  dilaniandam 
Acquisivimus  feris  carnivoris 
Plenum  prandium  unico  actu 
Difficile  erat  unius  facere  mcntionera 
Oriente  sole 
Spicula  vidi  pungere 
Propulerunt  arcus  ex  se  terra. 

Altum  mugierunt  enses 
Antequam  in  Laneo  campo 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.          188 

Eislinus  rex  cecidit 

Processimus  auro  ditati 

Ad  terram  prostratorum  dimicandum 

Gladius  secuit  clypeorura 

Picturas  in  galearum  conventu 

Cervicum  mustum  ex  vulneribus 

Diffusum  per  cerebrum  fissum. 

Tenuimus  clypeos  in  sanguine 

Cum  hastam  unximus 

Ante  Boring  hoi  mum 

Telorum  nubes  disrumpunt  clypeum 

Extrusit  arcus  ex  se  metallum 

Volnir  cecidit  in  conflictu 

Non  erat  illo  rex  major 

Caesi  dispersi  late  per  littora 

Ferae  amplectebantur  cscam. 

Pugna  manifesto  crescebat 

Antequam  Freyr  rex  caderet 

In  Flandorum  terra 

Coepit  cseruleus  ad  incidendum 

Sanguine  illitus  in  auream 

Loricam  in  pugna 

Durus  armorum  mucro  olim 

Virgo  deploravit  matutinam  lanienam 

Multa  prseda  dabatur  feris. 

Centies  centenos  vidi  jacere 

In  navibus 

Ubi  jEnglanes  vocatur 

Navigavimus  ad  pugnam 

Per  sex  dies  antequam  exercitus  caderet 

Transegimus  mucronum  missam 

In  exortu  soils 

Coactus  est  pro  nostris  gladiis 

Valdiofur  in  bello  occumbere. 


184  CimCAL  DISSEKTATIOH 

Ruit  pluvia  sanguinis  de  gladiis 

Prseceps  in  Bardafyrde 

Pallidum  corpus  pro  accipitribus 

Murmuravit  arcus  ubi  mucro 

Acriter  mordebat  loricas 

In  conflictu 

Odini  pileus  galea 

Cucurrit  arcus  ad  vulnua 

Venenate  acutus  conspersus  sudore  sanguineo. 

Tenuimus  magica  scuta 

Alte  in  pugnse  ludo 

Ante  Hiadningum  sinum 

Videre  licuit  turn  viros 

Qui  gladiis  lacerarunt  clypeos 

In  gladiatorio  murmure 

Galeae  attritse  virorum 

Erat  sicut  splendidam  virginem 

In  lecto  juxta  se  collocare. 

Dura  venit  tempestas  clypeis 

Cadaver  cecidit  in  terram 

In  Nortumbria 

Erat  circa  matutinum  tempos 

Hominibus  necessum  erat  fugere 

Ex  praelio  ubi  acute 

Cassidis  campos  mordebant  gladii 

Erat  hoc  veluti  juvenem  viduam 

In  primaria  sede  osculari. 

Herthiofe  evasit  fortunatus 

In  Australibus  Orcadibus  ipse 

Victoriae  in  nostris  hominibus 

Cogebatur  in  armorum  nimbo 

Rogvaldus  occumbere 

Iste  venit  summus  super  accipitres 

Luctus  in  gladiorum  ludo 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.  185 

Strenue  jactabat  concussor 
Galeae  sanguinis  teli. 

Quilibet  jacebat  transversim  supra  alium 

Gaudebat  pugna  laetus 

Accipiter  ob  gladiorum  ludum 

Non  fecit  aquilam  aut  aprum 

Qui  Irlandiam  gubernavit 

Conventus  fiebat  ferri  et  clypei 

Marstanus  rex  jejunis 

Fiebat  in  vedrse  sinu 

Praeda  data  corvis. 

Bellatorem  multum  vidi  cadere 

Mante  ante  machseram 

Virum  in  mucronum  dissidio 

Filio  meo  incidit  mature 

Gladius  juxta  cor 

Egillus  fecit  Agnerum  spoliatum 

Imperterritum  virum  vita 

Sonuit  lancea  prope  Hamdi 

Griseam  loricam  splendebant  vexilla. 

Verborum  tenaces  vidi  dissecare 

Haud  minutim  pro  lupis 

Endili  maris  ensibus 

Erat  per  hebdomadse  spatium 

Quasi  mulieres  vinum  apportarent 

Rubefactae  erant  naves 

Valde  in  strepitu  armorum 

Scissa  erat  lorica 

In  Scioldungorum  praelio. 

Pulcricomum  vidi  crepuscu^ascere 
Virginia  amatorem  circa  matutinum 
Et  confabulationis  amicum  viduarum 
Erat  sicut  calidum  balneum 
Vinei  vasis  nympha  portaret 
16* 


186  CRITICAL  DISSEKT AXIOM 

Nos  in  Ilae  freto 
Antequam  Orn  rex  caderet 
Sanguineum  clypeum  vidi  ruptura 
Hoc  invertit  virorum  vitam. 

Egimus  gladiorum  ad  csedem 
Ludum  in  Lindis  insula 
Cum  regibus  tribus 
Pauci  potuerunt  inde  Isetari 
Cecidit  multus  in  rictum  ferarura 
Accipiter  dilaniavit  camera  cum  lupo 
Ut  satur  inde  discederet 
Hybernorum  sanguinis  in  oceanum 
Copiose  decidit  per  mactationis  tempu* 

Alte  gladius  mordebat  clypeos 
Tune  cum  aurei  colors 
Hasta  fricabat  loricas 
Videre  licuit  in  Onlugs  insula 
Per  ssecula  multum  post 
Ibi  fuit  ad  gladiorum  ludos 
Reges  processerunt 
Rubicundum  erat  circa  insulam 
At  volans  Draco  vulnerum. 

Quid  est  viro  forti  morte  certius 
Etsi  ipse  in  armorum  nimbo 
Adversus  collocatus  sit 
Saepe  deplorat  setatem 
Qui  nunquam  premitur 
Malum  ferunt  timidum  incitare 
Aquilam  ad  gladiorum  ludum 
Meticulosus  venit  nuspiam 
Cordi  suo  usui. 

Hoc  numero  sequum  ut  procedat 
In  contactu  gladiorum 
Juvenis  unug  contra  alterum 


ON  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN.         187 

Non  retrocedat  vir  a  viro 
Hoc  fuit  viri  fortis  nobilitas  diu 
Semper  debet  amoris  amicus  virginum 
Audax  esse  in  fremitu  armorum. 

Hoc  videtur  mihi  re  vera 

Quod  fata  sequimur 

Rarus  transgreditur  fata  Parcarum 

Non  destinavi  Ella3 

De  vitse  exitu  megs 

Cum  ego  sanguinem  semimortuus  tegereni 

Et  naves  in  aquas  protrusi 

Passim  impetravimus  turn  feris 

Escam  in  Scotise  sinubus. 

Hoc  ridere  me  facit  semper 

Quod  Balderi  patris  scamns 

Parata  scio  in  aula 

Bibemus  cerevisiam  brevi 

Ex  concavis  crateribus  craniorum 

Non  gemit  vir  fortis  contra  mortem 

Magnifici  in  Odini  domibus 

Non  venio  disperabundis 

Verbis  ad  Odini  aulam. 

Hie  vellent  nunc  omnes 
Filii  Aslaugse  gladiis 
Amarum  bellum  excitare 
Si  exacte  scirent 
Calamitates  nostras 
Quern  non  pauci  angues 
Venenati  me  discerpunt 
Matrem  accepi  meis 
Filiis  ita  ut  corda  valeant'. 

Valde  inclinatur  ad  hsereditatem 
Crudele  stat  nocumentum  a  vipera 
Anguis  inhabitat  aulam  cordis 


188  CRITICAL  DISSEBTATION,  ETC. 

Speramus  alterius  ad  Othini 
Virgam  in  Ellae  sanguine 
Filiis  meis  livescet 
Sua  ira  rubescet 
Non  acres  juvenes 
Sessionem  tranquillam  facient. 

Habeo  quinquagies 

Praelia  sub  signis  facta 

Ex  belli  invitatione  et  semel 

Minime  putavi  hominura 

Quod  me  futurus  esset 

Juvenis  didici  mucronem  rubefaec»m 

Alius  rex  praestantior 

Nos  Asse  invitabunt 

Non  est  lugenda  mors. 

Pert  animus  finite 
Invitant  me  Dysae 
Quas  ex  Othini  aula 
Othinus  mihi  misit 
Lsetus  cerevisiam  cum  Asia 
In  summa  sede  bibam 
Vitas  elapsae  sunt  horn 
Rid  ens  moriar. 


CATH-LODA. 

ARGUMENT  OF  DUAN  I.* 

Fingal,  when  very  young,  making  a  voyage  to  the  Orkney  Islands, 
was  driven  by  stress  of  weather  into  a  bay  of  Scandinavia,  near 
the  residence  of  Starno,  king  of  Lochlin.  Starno  invites  Fingal 
to  a  feast.  Fingal,  doubting  the  faith  of  the  king,  and  mindful 
of  a  former  breach  of  hospitality,  refuses  to  go. — Starno  gathers 
together  his  tribes;  Fingal  resolves  to  defend  himself. — Night 
coming  on,  Duth-maruno  proposes  to  Fingal  to  observe  the  mo- 
tions of  the  enemy. — The  king  himself  undertakes  the  watch. 
Advancing  towards  the  enemy,  he  accidentally  comes  to  the 
cave  of  Turthor,  where  Starno  had  confined  Conban-Cargla,  the 
captive  daughter  of  a  neighboring  chief. — Her  story  is  imperfect, 
a  part  of  the  original  being  lost. — Fingal  comes  to  a  place  of 
worship,  where  Starno,  and  his  son  Swaran,  consulted  the  spirit 
of  Loda  concerning  the  issue  of  the  war. — The  rencounter  of 
Fingal  and  Swaran. — Duan  first  concludes  with  a  description  of 
the  airy  hall  of  Cruth-loda,  supposed  to  be  the  Odin  of  Scandi- 
navia. 

A  TALE  of  the  times  of  old  ! 

Why,  thou  wanderer  unseen !  thou  bender  of  the 
thistle  of  Lora ;  why,  thou  breeze  of  the  valley,  hast 
thou  left  mine  ear  1  I  hear  no  distant  roar  of  streams  ! 
No  sound  of  the  harp  from  the  rock  !  Come,  thou  hun- 
tress of  Lutha,  Malvina,  call  back  his  soul  to  the  bard. 
I  look  forward  to  Lochin  of  lakes,  to  the  dark  billowy 
bay  of  U-thorno,  where  Fingal  descends  from  ocean, 
from  the  roar  of  winds.  Few  are  the  heroes  of  Mor- 
ven  in  a  land  unknown  ! 

Starno  sent  a  dweller  of  Loda  to  bid  Fingal  to  the 
feast ;  but  the  king  remembered  the  past,  and  all  his 
rage  arose.  "  Nor  Gormal's  mossy  towers,  nor  Star- 
no,  shall  Fingal  behold.  Deaths  wander,  like  shadows, 
over  his  fiery  soul !  Do  I  forget  that  beam  of  light,  the 

*  The  bards  distinguished  those  compositions  in  which  the  nar- 
ration is  often  interrupted  by  episodes  and  apostrophes,  by  the 
name  of  Duan. 


190  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

white-handed  daughter  of  kings  ?*  Go,  son  of  Loda ; 
his  words  are  wind  to  Fingal :  wind,  that,  to  and  fro, 
drives  the  thistle  in  autumn's  dusky  vale.  Duth-maru- 
no,  arm  of  death !  Cromma-glas,  of  Iron  shields ! 
Struthmor,  dweller  of  battle's  wing!  Cromar,  whose 
ships  bound  on  seas,  careless  as  the  course  of  a  me- 
teor, on  dark-rolling  clouds  !  Arise  around  me,  chil- 
dren of  heroes,  in  a  land  unknown  !  Let  each  look  on 
his  shield  like  Trenmor,  the  ruler  of  wars." — "Come 
down,"  thus  Trenmor  said,  "  thou  dweller  between  the 
harps !  Thou  shalt  roll  this  stream  away,  or  waste 
with  me  in  earth." 

Around  the  king  they  rise  in  wrath.  No  words 
come  forth :  they  seize  their  spears.  Each  soul  is 
rolled  into  itself.  At  length  the  sudden  clang  is  waked 
on  all  their  echoing  shields.  Each  takes  his  hill  by 
night ;  at  intervals  they  darkly  stand.  Unequal  bursts 
the  hum  of  songs,  between  the  roaring  wind ! 

Broad  over  them  rose  the  moon  ! 

In  his  arms  came  tall  Duth-maruno :  he,  from  Croma 
of  rocks,  stern  hunter  of  the  boar !  In  his  dark  boat 
he  rose  on  waves,  when  Crumthormof  awaked  its 
woods.  In  the  *hase  he  shone,  among  foes  :  No  fear 
was  thine,  Duth-maruno ! 

"  Son  of  daring  Comhal,  shall  my  steps  be  forward 
through  night  ?  From  this  shield  shall  I  view  them, 
over  their  gleaming  tribes  ?  Starno,  king  of  lakes,  is 
before  me,  and  Swaran,  the  foe  of  strangers.  Their 
words  are  not  in  vain,  by  Loda's  stone  of  power. 
Should  Duth-maruno  not  return,  his  spouse  is  lonely 
at  home,  where  meet  two  roaring  streams  on  Crath- 
mocraulo's  plain.  Around  are  hills,  with  echoing 
woods ;  the  ocean  is  rolling  near.  My  son  looks  on 

*  Agandecca,  the  daughter  of  Starno,  whom  her  father  killed, 
on  account  of  her  discovering  to  Fingal  a  plot  laid  against  his  We. 
t  Crumthormoth,  one  of  the  Orkney  or  Shetland  Islands 


CATH-LODA.  191 

screaming  sea-fowl,  a  young  wanderer  on  the  field. 
Give  the  head  of  a  boar  to  Candona,  tell  him  of  his 
father's  joy,  when  the  bristly  strength  of  U-thorno 
rolled  on  his  lifted  spear.  Tell  him  of  my  deeds  in 
war  !  Tell  where  his  father  fell !" 

"  Not  forgetful  of  my  fathers,"  said  Fingal,  "  I  have 
bounded  over  the  seas.  Theirs  were  the  times  of  dan- 
ger in  the  days  of  old.  Nor  settles  darkness  on  me, 
before  foes,  though  youthful  in  my  locks.  Chief  of 
Crathmocraulo,  the  field  of  night  is  mine." 

Fingal  rushed,  in  all  his  arms,  wide  bounding  over 
Turthor's  stream,  that  sent  its  sullen  roar,  by  night, 
through  Gormal's  misty  vale.  A  moonbeam  glittered 
on  a  rock  ;  in  the  midst  stood  a  stately  form  ;  a  form 
with  floating  locks,  like  Lochlin's  white-bosomed  maids. 
Unequal  are  her  steps,  and  short.  She  throws  a 
broken  song  on  wind.  At  times  she  tosses  her  white 
arms  :  for  grief  is  dwelling  in  her  soul. 

"  Torcal-torno,  of  aged  locks,"  she  said?  "  where 
now  are  thy  steps,  by  Lulan  1  Thou  hast  failed  at 
thine  own  dark  streams,  father  of  Conban-cargla  !  But 
I  behold  thee,  chief  of  Lulan,  sporting  by  Loda's  hall, 
when  the  dark-skirted  night  is  rolled  along  the  sky. 
Thou  sometimes  hidest  the  moon  with  thy  shield.  I 
have  seen  her  dim,  in  heaven.  Thou  kindlest  thy 
hair  into  meteors,  and  sailest  along  the  night.  Why 
am  I  forgot,  in  my  cave,  king  of  shaggy  boars  ?  Look 
from  the  hall  of  Loda,  on  thy  lonely  daughter." 

"  Who  art  thou,"  said  Fingal,  "  voice  of  night  ?" 

She,  trembling,  turned  away. 

"  Who  art  thou,  in  thy  darkness  ?" 

She  shrunk  into  the  cave. 

The  king  loosed  the  thong  from  her  hands.  He 
asked  about  her  fathers. 

"  Torcul-torno,"  she  said,  "  once  dwelt  at  Lulan's 
foamy  stream  :  he  dwelt — but  now,  in  Loda's  hall,  h« 


102  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

shakes  the  sounding  shell.  He  met  Starno  of  Lochlin 
in  war  ;  long  fought  the  dark-eyed  kings.  My  father 
fell,  in  his  blood,  blue-shielded  Torcul-torno !  By  a 
rock,  at  Lulan's  stream,  I  had  pierced  the  bounding 
roe.  My  white  hand  gathered  my  hair  from  off  the 
rushing  winds.  I  heard  a  noise.  Mine  eyes  were  up. 
My  soft  breast  rose  on  high.  My  step  was  forward, 
at  Lulan,  to  meet  thee,  Torcul-torno.  It  was  Starno, 
dreadful  king  !  His  red  eyes  rolled  on  me  in  love. 
Dark  waved  his  shaggy  brow,  above  his  gathered 
smile.  Where  is  my  father,  I  said,  he  that  was  mighty 
in  war  !  Thou  art  left  alone  among  foes,  O  daughter 
of  Torcul-torno  !  He  took  my  hand.  He  raised  the 
sail.  In  this  cave  he  placed  me  dark.  At  times  he 
comes  a  gathered  mist.  He  lifts  before  me  my  fa- 
ther's shield.  But  often  passes  a  beam  of  youth  far 
distant  from  my  cave.  The  son  of  Starno  moves  in 
my  sight.  He  dwells  lonely  in  my  soul." 

"  Maid  of  Lulan,"  said  Fingal,  "  white-handed 
daughter  of  grief !  a  cloud,  marked  with  streaks  of  fire, 
is  rolled  along  my  soul.  Look  not  to  that  dark-robed 
moon  ;  look  not  to  those  meteors  of  heaven.  My 
gleaming  steel  is  around  thee,  the  terror  of  my  foes ! 
It  is  not  the  steel  of  the  feeble,  nor  of  the  dark  in  soul ! 
The  maids  are  not  shut  in  our  caves  of  streams. 
They  toss  not  their  white  arms  alone.  They  bend 
fair  within  their  locks,  above  the  harps  of  Selma. 
Their  voice  is  not  in  the  desert  wild.  We  melt  along 
the  pleasing  sound  !" 

Fingal  again  advanced  his  steps,  wide  through  the 
bosom  of  night,  to  where  the  trees  of  Loda  shook  amid 
squally  winds.  Three  stones,  with  heads  of  moss,  are 
there  ;  a  stream  with  foaming  course :  and  dreadful, 
rolled  around  them,  is  the  dark  red  cloud  of  Loda. 
High  from  its  top  looked  forward  a  ghost,  half  formed 


By  a  Turk  .  a.t  Lilian's  stream.  Iliaflpiercei  fhe.buiniamgi-oe 


CATH-LODA.  193 

of  the  shadowy  smoke.  He  poured  his  voice,  at  times, 
amidst  the  roaring  stream.  Near,  bending  beneath  a 
blasted  tree,  two  heroes  received  his  words :  Swaran 
of  lakes,  and  Starno,  foe  of  strangers.  On  their  dun 
shields  they  darkly  leaned  :  their  spears  are  forward 
through  night.  Shrill  sounds  the  blast  of  darkness  in 
Starno's  floating  beard. 

They  heard  the  tread  of  Fingal.  The  warriors  rose 
in  arms.  "  Swaran,  lay  that  wanderer  low,"  said  Star- 
no,  in  his  pride.  "  Take  the  shield  of  thy  father.  It 
is  a  rock  in  war."  Swaran  threw  his  gleaming  spear. 
It  stood  fixed  in  Loda's  tree.  Then  came  the  foes  for- 
ward with  swords.  They  mixed  their  rattling  steel. 
Through  the  thongs  of  Svvaran's  shield  rushed  the 
blade*  of  Luno.  The  shield  fell  rolling  on  earth. 
Cleft,  the  helmet  fell  down.  Fingal  stopt  the  lifted 
steel.  Wrathful  stood  Swaran,  unarmed.  He  rolled 
his  silent  eyes  ;  he  threw  his  sword  on  earth.  Then, 
slowly  stalking  over  the  stream,  he  whistled  as  he 
went. 

Nor  unseen  of  his  father  is  Swaran.  Starno  turns 
away  in  wrath.  His  shaggy  brows  were  dark  above 
his  gathered  rage.  He  strikes  Loda's  tree  with  his 
spear.  He  raises  the  hum  of  songs.  They  come  to 
the  host  of  Lochlin,  each  in  his  own  dark  path  ;  like 
two  foam-covered  streams  from  two  rainy  vales  ! 

To  Turthor's  plain  Fingal  returned.  Fair  rose  the 
beam  of  the  east.  It  shone  on  the  spoils  of  Lochlin 
in  the  hand  of  the  king.  From  her  cave  came  forth, 
in  her  beauty,  the  daughter  of  Torcul-torno.  She 
gathered  her  hair  from  wind.  She  wildly  raised  her 
song.  The  song  of  Lulan  of  shells,  where  once  her 
father  dwelt.  She  saw  Starno's  bloody  shield.  Glad- 


*  The   sword  of  Fingal,  so  called  from  its  maker,  Lirao  of 
Luchliu. 

17 


194  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

ness  rose,  a  light,  on  her  face.     She  saw  the  cleft hel 
met  of  Swaran.     She  shrunk,  darkened,  from  Fingal. 
"  Art  thou  fallen  by  thy  hundred  streams,  O  love  of  the 
mournful  maid  ?" 

U-thorno  that  risest  in  waters !  on  whose  side  are 
the  meteors  of  night  ?  I  behold  the  dark  moon  de- 
scending behind  thy  resounding  woods.  On  thy  top 
dwells  the  misty  Loda  :  the  house  of  the  spirits  of  men  ! 
In  the  end  of  his  cloudy  hall  bends  forward  Cruth-loda 
of  swords.  His  form  is  dimly  seen  amid  his  wavy 
mist.  His  right  hand  is  on  his  shield.  In  his  left  is 
the  half  viewless  shell.  The  roof  of  his  dreadful  hall 
is  marked  with  nightly  fires  ! 

The  race  of  Cruth-loda  advance,  a  ridge  of  form- 
less shades.  He  reaches  the  sounding  shell  to  those 
who  shone  in  war.  But  between  him  and  the  feeble, 
his  shield  rises  a  darkened  orb.  He  is  a  setting  meteor 
to  the  weak  in  arms.  Bright  as  a  rainbow  on  streams, 
came  Lulan's  white-bosomed  maid. 

ARGUMENT    OF    DUAN    II. 

Fingal,  returning  with  day,  devolves  the  command  on  Duth- 
maruno,  who  engages  the  enemy,  and  drives  them  over  the 
stream  of  Turthor.  Having  recalled  his  people,  he  congratulates 
Uuth-maruno  on  his  success,  but  discovers  that  that  nero  had 
been  mortally  wounded  in  the  action — Duth-maruno  dies.  Ullin, 
the  bard,  in  honor  of  the  dead,  introduces  the  episode  of  Col- 
gorm  ana  Strina-dona,  which  concludes  this  duan. 

"  WHERE  art  thou,  son  of  the  king  ?"  said  darK- 
haired  Duth-maruno.  "  Where  hast  thou  failed,  young 
beam  of  Selma  ?  He  returns  not  from  the  bosom  of 
night !  Morning  is  spread  on  U-thorno.  In  his  mist 
is  the  sun  on  his  hill.  Warriors,  lift  the  shields  in  my 
presence.  He  must  not  fall  like  a  fire  from  heaven, 
whose  place  is  not  marked  on  the  ground.  He  comes 
like  an  eagle,  from  the  skirt  of  his  squally  wind  !  In 


CATII-LODA.  195 

His  hand  are  the  spoil  of  foes.  King  of  Solma,  our 
souls  were  sad  !" 

"  Near  us  are  the  foes,  Duth-maruno.  They  come 
forward,  like  waves  in  mist,  when  their  foamy  tops  are 
seen  at  times  above  the  low-sailing  vapor.  The  tra- 
veller shrinks  on  his  journey ;  he  knows  not  whither 
to  fly.  No  trembling  travellers  are  we  !  Sons  of  he- 
roes call  forth  the  steel.  Shall  the  sword  of  Fingal 
arise,  or  shall  a  warrior  lead  ?" 

The  deeds  of  old,  said  Duth-maruno,  are  like  paths 
to  our  eyes,  O  Fingal !  Broad-shielded  Trenmor  is 
still  seen  amidst  his  own  dim  years.  Nor  feeble  was 
the  soul  of  the  king.  There  no  dark  deed  wandered 
in  secret.  From  their  hundred  streams  came  the 
tribes,  to  glassy  Colglan-crona.  Their  chiefs  were 
before  them.  Each  strove  to  lead  the  war.  Their 
swords  were  often  half  unsheathed.  Red  rolled  their 
eyes  of  rage.  Separate  they  stood,  and  hummed  their 
surly  songs.  "  Why  should  they  yield  to  each  other  ? 
their  fathers  were  equal  in  war."  Trenmor  was  there, 
with  his  people  stately,  in  youthful  locks.  He  saw  the 
advancing  foe.  The  grief  of  his  soul  arose.  He  bade 
the  chiefs  to  lead  by  turns ;  they  led,  but  they  were 
rolled  away.  From  his  own  mossy  hill  blue-shielded 
Trenmor  came  down.  He  led  wide-skirted  battle,  and 
the  strangers  failed.  Around  him  the  dark-browed 
warriors  came  :  they  struck  the  shield  of  joy.  Like  a 
r>leasant  gale  the  words  of  power  rushed  forth  from 
Selma  of  kings.  But  the  chiefs  led  by  turns,  in  war, 
till  mighty  danger  rose  :  then  was  the  hour  of  the  king 
to  conquer  in  the  field. 

"  Not  unknown,"  said  Cromma-glas  of  shields,  "  are 
Jie  deeds  of  our  fathers-  But  who  shall  now  lead  the  war 
before  the  race  of  kings  ?  Mist  settles  on  these  four  dark 
hills :  within  it  let  each  warrior  strike  his  shield.  Spirits 
may  descend  in  darkness,  and  mark  us  for  the  war.*' 


196  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAH. 

They  went  each  to  his  hill  of  mist.  Bards  marked 
the  sounds  of  the  shields.  Loudest  rung  thy  boss, 
Duth-maruno.  Thou  must  lead  in  war  ! 

Like  the  murmurs  of  waters  the  race  of  U-thorno 
came  down.  Starno  led  the  battle,  and  Swaran  of 
stormy  isles.  They  looked  forward  from  iron  shields, 
like  Cruth-loda,  fiery-eyed,  when  he  looks  from  behind 
the  darkened  moon,  and  strews  his  signs  on  night.  The 
foes  met  by  Turthor's  stream.  They  heaved  like  ridgy 
waves.  Their  echoing  strokes  are  mixed.  Shadowy 
death  flies  over  the  hosts.  They  were  clouds  of  haii 
with  squally  winds  in  their  skirts.  Their  showers  are 
roaring  together.  Below  them  swells  the  dark-rolling 
deep. 

Strife  of  gloomy  U-thorno,  why  should  I  mark  thy 
wounds  ?  Thou  art  with  the  years  that  are  gone  ;  thou 
fadest  on  my  soul  ! 

Starno  brought  forward  his  skirt  of  war,  and  Swaran 
his  own  dark  wing.  Nor  a  harmless  fire  is  Duth- 
maruno's  sword.  Lochlin  is  rolled  over  her  streams. 
The  wrathful  kings  are  lost  in  thought.  They  roll 
their  silent  eyes  over  the  flight  of  their  land.  The 
horn  of  Fingal  was  heard  ;  the  sons  of  woody  Albion 
returned.  But  many  lay,  by  Turthor's  stream,  silent 
in  their  blood. 

"  Chief  of  Crathmo,"  said  the  king,  "  Duth-maruno, 
hunter  of  boars  !  not  harmless  returns  my  eagle  from 
the  field  of  foes  !  For  this  white-bosomed  Lanul  shall 
brighten  at  her  streams ;  Candona  shall  rejoice  as  he 
wanders  in  Crathmo's  fields." 

"  Colgorm,"  replied  the  chief,  "  was  the  first  of  my 
race  in  Albion  ;  Colgorm,  the  rider  of  ocean  ;  through 
its  watery  vales.  He  slew  his  brother  in  I-thorno  :* 
he  left  the  land  of  his  fathers.  He  chose  his  place  U 

•  An  island  of  Scandinavia. 


CATH-LODA.  197 

silence,  by  rocky  Crathmo-craulo.  His  race  camo 
forth  in  their  years  ;  they  came  forth  to  war,  but  they 
always  fell.  The  wound  of  my  fathers  is  mine,  king 
of  echoing  isles ! 

He  drew  an  arrow  from  his  side !  He  fell  pale  in  a 
land  unknown.  His  soul  came  forth  to  his  fathers,  to 
their  stormy  isle.  There  they  pursued  boars  of  mist, 
along  the  skirts  of  winds.  The  chiefs  stood  silent 
around,  as  the  stones  of  Loda,  on  their  hill.  The  tra- 
veller sees  them,  through  the  twilight,  from  his  lonely 
path.  He  thinks  them  the  ghosts  of  the  aged,  forming 
future  wars. 

Night  came  down  on  U-thorno.  Still  stood  the  chiefs 
in  their  grief.  The  blast  whistled,  by  turns,  through 
every  warrior's  hair.  Fingal,  at  length,  broke  forth 
from  the  thoughts  of  his  soul.  He  called  Ullin  of 
harps,  and  bade  the  song  to  rise.  "  No  falling  fire, 
that  is  only  seen,  and  then  retires  in  night;  no  de- 
parting meteor  was  he  that  is  laid  so  low.  He  was 
like  the  strong-beaming  sun,  long  rejoicing  on  his  hill. 
Call  the  names  of  his  fathers  from  their  dwellings  old !' 

I-thorno,  said  the  bard,  that  risest  midst  ridgy  seas ! 
Why  is  thy  head  so  gloomy  in  the  ocean's  mist  ?  From 
thy  vales  came  forth  a  race,  fearless  as  thy  strong- 
winged  eagles :  the  race  of  Colgorm  of  iron  shields, 
dwellers  of  Loda's  hall. 

In  Tormoth's  resounding  isle  arose  Lurthan,  streamy 
lill.  It  bent  its  woody  head  over  a  silent  vale.  There, 
it  foamy  Cruruth's  source,  dwelt  Rurmar,  hunter  ot 
ftoars  !  His  daughter  was  fair  as  a  sunbeam,  white- 
bosomed  Strina-dona ! 

Many  a  king  of  heroes,  and  hero  of  iron  shields ; 
many  a  youth  of  heavy  locks  came  to  Rurmar's  echo- 
ing hall.  They  came  to  woo  the  maid,  the  stately 
huntress  of  Tormoth  wild.  But  thou  lookest  careless 
from  thy  steps,  high-bosomed  Strina  dona ! 
17* 


199  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAK, 

Tf  on  the  heath  she  moved,  her  breast  was  whiter 
than  the  down  of  cana  ;*  If  on  the  sea-beat  shore,  than 
the  foam  of  the  rolling  ocean.  Her  eyes  were  two 
stars  of  light.  Her  face  was  heaven's  bow  in  showers. 
Her  dark  hair  flowed  round  it,  like  the  streaming  clouds. 
Thou  wert  the  dweller  of  souls,  white-handed  Strina- 
dona ! 

Colgorm  came  in  his  ship,  and  Corcul-suran,  king  of 
shells.  The  brothers  came  from  I-thorno  to  woo  the 
sunbeam  of  Tormoth  wild.  She  saw  them  in  their 
echoing  steel.  Her  soul  was  fixed  on  blue-eyed  Col- 
gorm. Ul-lochlin'sf  nightly  eye  looked  in,  and  saw 
the  tossing  arms  of  Strina-dona. 

Wrathful  the  brothers  frowned.  Their  flaming  eyes 
in  silence  met.  They  turned  away.  They  struck 
their  shields.  Their  hands  were  trembling  on  their 
swords.  They  rushed  into  the  strife  of  heroes  for  long- 
haired Strina-dona. 

Corcul-suran  fell  in  blood.  On  his  isle  raged  the 
strength  of  his  father.  He  turned  Colgorm  from 
I-thorno,  to  wander-  on  all  the  winds.  In  Crathmo- 
craulo's  rocky  field  he  dwelt  by  a  foreign  stream. 
Nor  darkened  the  king  alone,  that  beam  of  light  was 
near,  the  daughter  of  echoing  Tormoth,  white  armed 
Strina-dona. 


*  The  cana  is  a  certain  kind  of  grass,  which  grows  plentifully  ia 
!he  heathy  morasses  of  the  north. 
f  Ul-lochlin,  "  the  guide  to  Lochlin  jn  the  name  of  a  atar 


CATH-LODA.  199 


ARGUMENT   OF    DUAN    III. 

Oasian,  after  some  general  reflections,  describes  Hie  situation  of 
Fingal,  and  the  position  of  the  army  of  Lochlin. — The  conveisa 
tion  of  Starno  and  Swaran. — The  episode  of  Corman-trunar  and 
Foina-bragal. — Stanw,  from  his  own  example,  recommends  to 
Swaran  to  surprise  Fingal,  who  had  retired  alone  to  a  neighbor- 
ing hill.  Upon  Swaran's  refusal,  Starno  undertakes  the  enter- 
prise himself,  is  overcome  and  taken  prisoner  by  Fingal.  He  is 
dismissed,  alter  a  severe  reprimand  for  his  cruelty. 

WHENCE  is  the  stream  of  years  ?  Whither  do  they  roll 
along  ?  Where  have  they  hid,  in  mist,  their  many  col- 
ored sides. 

I  look  unto  the  times  of  old,  but  they  seem  dim  to 
Ossian's  eyes,  like  reflected  moonbeams  on  a  distant 
lake.  Here  rise  the  red  beams  of  war!  There,  silent, 
dwells  a  feeble  race  !  They  mark  no  years  with  their 
deeds,  as  slow  they  pass  along.  Dweller  between  the 
shields !  thou  that  awakest  the  failing  soul !  descend 
from  thy  wall,  harp  of  Cona,  with  thy  voices  three  ! 
Come  with  that  which  kindles  the  past :  rear  the  forms 
of  old,  on  their  own  dark-brown  years ! 

U-thorno,  hill  of  storms,  I  behold  my  race  on  thy 
side.  Fingal  is  bending  in  night  over  Duth-maruno's 
tomb.  Near  him  are  the  steps  of  his  heroes,  hunters 
of  the  boar.  By  Turthor's  stream  the  host  of  Lochlin 
is  deep  in  shades.  The  wrathful  kings  stood  on  two 
hills :  they  looked  forward  on  their  bossy  shields. 
They  looked  forward  to  the  stars  of  night,  red  wander- 
ing in  tlie  west.  Cruth-loda  bends  from  high,  like  a 
formless  meteor  in  clouds.  He  sends  abroad  the  winds, 
and  marks  them  with  his  signs.  Starno  foresaw  that 
Morven's  king  was  not  to  yield  in  war. 

He  twice  struck  the  tree  in  wrath.  He  rushed  be- 
fore his  son.  He  hummed  a  surly  song,  and  heard  his 
«ii  in  wind.  Turned  from  one  another,  they  stood, 


200  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSLAIf. 

like  two  oaks,  which  different  winds  had  bent ;  each 
hangs  over  his  own  loud  rill,  and  shakes  his  boughs  in 
the  course  of  blasts. 

"  Annir,"  said  Starno  of  lakes,  "  was  a  fire  that  con- 
sumed of  old.  He  poured  death  from  his  eyes  along 
the  striving  fields.  His  joy  was  in  the  fall  of  men. 
Blood  to  him  was  a  summer  stream,  that  brings  joy  to 
the  withered  vales,  from  its  own  mossy  rock.  He 
came  forth  to  the  lake  Luth-cormo,  to  meet  the  tall 
Corman-trunar,  he  from  Urlor  of  streams,  dweller  of 
battle's  wing." 

The  chief  of  Urlor  hud  come  to  Gormal  with  hi* 
dark-bosomed  ships.  He  saw  the  daughter  of  Annir. 
white-armed  Foina-bragal.  He  saw  her  !  Nor  carelesj 
rolled  her  eyes  on  the  rider  of  stormy  waves.  She 
fled  to  his  ship  in  darkness,  like  a  moonbeam  througk 
a  nightly  veil.  Annir  pursued  along  the  deep ;  ha 
called  the  winds  of  heaven.  Nor  alone  was  the  king! 
Starno  was  by  his  side.  Like  U-thorno's  young  eagle, 
I  turned  my  eyes  on  my  father. 

We  rushed  into  roaring  Urlor.  With  his  people 
came  tall  Corman-trunar.  We  fought  j  but  the  foe  pre- 
vailed. In  his  wrath  my  father  stood.  He  lopped  the 
young  trees  with  his  sword.  His  eyes  rolled  red  in 
his  rage.  1  marked  the  soul  of  the  king,  and  I  retired 
in  night.  From  the  field  I  took  a  broken  helmet ;  a 
shield  that  was  pierced  with  steel ;  pointless  was  the 
spear  ha  my  hand.  I  went  to  find  the  foe. 

On  a  rock  sat  tall  Corman-trunar  beside  his  burning 
oak ;  and  near  him  beneath  a  tree,  sat  deep-bosomed 
Foina-bragal.  I  threw  my  broken  shield  before  her 
I  spoke  the  words  of  peace.  "  Beside  his  rolling  sei 
lies  Annir  of  many  lakes.  The  king  was  pierced  ir 
battle ;  and  Starno  is  to  raise  his  tomb.  Me,  a  son  of 
Loda,  he  sends  to  white-handed  Foina,  to  bid  her  send 
a  lock  from  her  hair,  to  rest  with  her  father  La  earth. 


CATH-LODA. 

And  inou,  king  of  roaring  Urlor,  let  the  battle  cease, 
till  Annir  receive  the  shell  from  fiery-eyed  Cruth-loda." 

Bursting  into  tears,  she  rose,  and  tore  a  lock  from 
her  hair ;  a  lock,  which  wandered  in  the  blast,  along 
her  heaving  breast.  Corman-trunar  gave  the  she.l, 
and  bade  me  rejoice  before  him.  I  rested  in  the  shade 
of  night,  and  hid  my  face  in  my  helmet  deep.  Sleep 
descended  on  the  foe.  I  rose,  like  a  stalking  ghost. 
I  pierced  the  side  of  Corman-trunar.  Nor  did  Foina- 
bragal  escape.  She  rolled  her  white  bosom  in  blood. 

Why,  then,  daughter  of  heroes,  didst  thou  wake  my 
rage  ? 

Morning  rose.  The  foe  were  fled,  like  the  depart- 
ure of  mist.  Annir  struck  his  bossy  shield.  He  called 
his  dark-haired  son.  I  came,  streaked  with  wandering 
blood  :  thrice  rose  the  shout  of  the  king,  like  the  burst- 
ing forth  of  a  squall  of  wind  from  a  cloud  by  night. 
We  rejoiced  three  days  above  the  dead,  and  called  the 
hawks  of  heaven.  They  came  from  all  their  winds  to 
feast  on  Annir's  foes.  Swaran,  Fingal  is  alone  in  his 
hill  of  night.  Let  thy  spear  pierce  the  king  in  secret ; 
like  Annir,  rny  soul  shall  rejoice. 

"  Son  of  Annir,"  said  Swaran,  "  I  shall  not  slay  in 
shades  :  I  move  forth  in  light :  the  hawks  rush  from  all 
their  winds.  They  are  wont  to  trace  my  course  :  it  is 
not  harmless  through  war." 

Burning  rose  the  rage  of  the  king.  He  thrice  raised 
his  gleaming  spear.  But,  starting,  he  spared  his  son, 
and  rushed  into  the  night.  By  Turthor's  stream,  a 
cave  is  dark,  the  dwelling  of  Conban-carglas.  There 
he  laid  the  helmet  of  kings,  and  called  the  maid  of 
Lulan ;  but  she  was  distant  far  in  Loda's  resounding 
hall. 

Swelling  in  his  rage,  he  strode  to  where  Fingal  lay 
alone.  The  king  was  laid  on  his  shield,  on  his  own 
secret  hill. 


202  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIA!f . 

Stern  hunter  of  shaggy  boars !  no  feeble  maid  is  law 
before  thee.     No  boy  on  his  ferny  bed,  by  Turthor's 
murmuring  stream.     Here  is  spread  the  couch  of  the 
mighty,  from  which  they  rise  to  deeds  of  death  !  Hunt- 
er of  shaggy  boars,  awaken  not  the  terrible  ! 

Starno  came  murmuring  on.  Fingal  arose  in  arms. 
"  Who  art  thou,  son  of  night !"  Silent  he  threw  the 
spear.  They  mixed  their  gloomy  strife.  The  shield 
of  Starno  fell,  cleft  in  twain.  He  is  bound  to  an  oak. 
The  early  beam  arose.  It  was  then  Fingal  beheld  the 
king.  He  rolled  awhile  his  silent  eyes.  He  thought 
of  other  days,  when  white-bosomed  Agandecca  moved 
like  the  music  of  songs.  He  loosed  the  thong  from  his 
hands.  Son  of  Annir,  he  said,  retire.  Retire  to  Gor- 
mal  of  shells  ;  a  beam  that  was  set  returns.  I  remem- 
ber thy  white-bosomed  daughter ;  dreadful  king,  away ! 
Go  to  thy  troubled  dwelling,  cloudy  foe  of  the  lovely ! 
Let  the  stranger  shun  thee,  thou  gloomy  in  the  hall ! 

A  tale  of  the  times  of  old  ! 


COMALA, 

A  DRAMATIC  POEM. 
ARGUMENT. 

This  poerr.  is  valuable  on  account  of  the  light  it  throws  on  the  an- 
tiquity of  Ossian's  compositions.  The  Caracul  mentioned  here 
is  the  same  with  Caracalla,  the  son  of  Severus,  who,  in  the  year 
211,  commanded  an  expedition  against  the  Caledonians.  The 
variety  of  the  measure  shows  that  the  poem  was  originally  set  to 
music,  and  perhaps  presented  before  the  chiefs  upon  solemn 
occasions.  Tradition  has  handed  down  the  story  more  complete 
than  it  is  in  the  poem.  "  Comala,  the  daughter  of  Sarno,  lung 
of  Inistore,  or  Orkney  Islands,  fell  in  love  with  Fingalj  the  son 
of  Comhal,  at  a  feast,  to  which  her  father  had  invited  him  [Fin- 
gal,  B.  III.]  upon  his  return  from  Lochlin,  after  the  death  of 
Agandecca.  Her  passion  was  so  violent,  that  she  followed  him, 
disguised  like  a  youth,  who  wanted  to  be  employed  in  his  wars. 
She  was  soon  discovered  by  Hidallan,  the  son  of  Lamor,  one  of 
Fingal's  heroes,  whose  love  she  had  slighted  some  time  before. 
Her  romantic  passion  and  beauty  recommended  her  so  much  to 
the  king,  that  he  had  resolved  to  make  her  his  wife  ;  when  newa 
was  brought  him  of  Caracul's  expedition.  He  marched  to  stop 
the  progress  of  the  enemy,  and  Comala  attended  him.  He  left 
her  on  a  hill,  within  sight  of  Caracul's  army,  when  he  himself 
went  to  battle,  having  previously  promised,  if  he  survived,  to 
return  that  night."  The  sequel  of  the  story  may  be  gathered 
from  the  poem  itself. 

The  Persona. 

FINGAL.         MELILCOMA,        >      Daughters 
HIDALLAN.     DERSAGRENA,     $      of  Morni. 
COMALA.        BARDS. 

Dersagrena.  The  chase  is  over.  No  noise  on 
Erdven  but  the  torrent's  roar !  Daughter  of  Morni, 
come  from  Crona's  banks.  Lay  down  the  bow  and 
take  the  harp.  Let  the  night  come  on  with  songs ; 
let  our  joy  be  great  on  Ardven. 

Melilcoma.  Night  comes  on  apace,  thou  blue-eyed 
maid !  gray  night  grows  dim  along  the  plain,  I  saw  a 


204  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

deer  at  Crona's  stream ;  a  mossy  bank  he  seemed 
through  the  gloom,  but  soon  he  bounded  away.  A 
meteor  played  round  his  branching  horns ;  the  awful 
faces  of  other  times  looked  from  the  clouds  of  Crona. 

Dersagrena.  These  are  the  signs  of  Fingal's  death. 
The  king  of  shields  is  fallen  !  and  Caracul  prevails. 
Rise,  Comala,  from  thy  rock  ;  daughter  of  Sarno,  rise 
in  tears  !  the  youth  of  thy  love  is  low  ;  his  ghost  is  on 
our  hills. 

Melilcoma.  There  Comala  sits  forlorn !  two  gray 
dogs  near  shake  their  rough  ears,  and  catch  the  flying 
breeze.  Her  red  cheek  rests  upon  her  arm,  the  moun- 
tain wind  is  in  her  hair.  She  turns  her  blue  eyes 
towards  the  fields  of  his  promise.  Where  art  thou,  O 
Fingal  ?  The  night  is  gathering  around. 

Comala.  O  Carun  of  the  streams  !  why  do  I  behold 
thy  waters  rolling  in  blood  ?  Has  the  noise  of  the 
battle  been  heard  ;  and  sleeps  the  king  of  Morven  ? 
Rise,  moon,  thou  daughter  of  the  sky !  look  from  be- 
tween thy  clouds ;  rise,  that  I  may  behold  the  gleam 
of  his  steel  on  the  field  of  his  promise.  Or  rather  let 
the  meteor,  that  lights  our  fathers  through  the  night, 
come  with  its  red  beam,  to  show  me  the  way  to  my 
fallen  hero.  Who  will  defend  me  from  sorrow  ?  Who 
from  the  love  of  Hidallan  ?  Long  shall  Comala  look 
before  she  can  behold  Fingal  in  the  midst  of  his  host ; 
bright  as  the  coming  forth  of  the  morning  in  the  cloud 
of  an  early  shower. 

Hidallan.  Dwell,  thou  mist  of  gloomy  Crona,  dwell 
on  the  path  of  the  king  !  Hide  his  steps  from  mine 
eyes,  let  me  remember  my  friend  no  more.  The 
bands  of  battle  are  scattered,  no  crowding  tread  is 
round  the  noise  of  his  steel.  O  Carun !  roll  thy 
streams  of  blood,  the  chief  of  the  people  is  low. 

Comala.  Who  fell  on  Carun's  sounding  banks,  son 
of  the  cloudy  night  ?  Was  he  white  as  the  snow  of 


COM  ALA.  205 

Ardven  ?  Blooming  as  the  bow  of  the  shower  ?  Was 
his  hair  like  the  mist  of  the  hill,  soft  and  curling  in  the 
day  of  the  sun  ?  Was  he  like  the  thunder  of  heaven 
in  battle  ?  Fleet  as  the  roe  of  the  desert  ? 

Hidallan.  O  that  I  might  behold  his  love,  fair- 
leaning  from  her  rock  !  Her  red  eye  dim  in  tears, 
her  blushing  cheek  half  hid  in  her  locks  !  Blow,  O 
gentle  breeze !  lift  thou  the  heavy  locks  of  the  maid, 
that  I  may  behold  her  white  arm,  her  lovely  cheek  in 
her  grief. 

Comala.  And  is  the  son  of  Comhal  fallen,  chief  of 
the  mournful  tale  !  The  thunder  rolls  on  the  hill . 
The  lightning  flies  on  wings  of  fire  !  They  frighten 
not  Comala ;  for  Fingal  is  low.  Say,  chief  of  the 
mournful  tale,  fell  the  breaker  of  the  shields  ? 

Hidallan.  The  nations  are  scattered  on  their  hills  ! 
they  shall  hear  the  voice  of  the  king  no  more. 

Comala.  Confusion  pursue  thee  over  thy  plains  ! 
Ruin  overtake  thee,  thou  king  of  the  world !  Few  be 
thy  steps  to  thy  grave  ;  and  let  one  virgin  mourn  thee  ! 
Let  her  be  like  Comala,  tearful  in  the  days  of  her 
youth !  Why  hast  thou  told  me,  Hidallan,  that  my 
hero  fell  ?  I  might  have  hoped  a  little  while  his  re- 
turn ;  I  might  have  thought  I  saw  him  on  the  distant 
rock :  a  tree  might  have  deceived  me  with  his  appear- 
ance ;  the  wind  of  the  hill  might  have  been  the  sound 
of  his  horn  in  mine  ear.  O  that  I  were  on  the  banks 
of  Carun  ;  that  my  tears  might  be  warm  on  his  cheek. 

Hidallan.  He  lies  not  on  the  banks  of  Carun  :  on 
Ardven  heroes  raise  his  tomb.  Look  on  them,  O 
moon  !  from  thy  clouds ;  be  thy  beam  bright  on  his 
breast,  that  Comala  may  behold  him  in  the  light  of  his 
armor. 

Comala.  Stop,  ye  sons  of  the  grave,  till  I  behold 
my  love !  He  left  me  at  the  chase  alone.  I  knew  not 
that  he  went  to  war.  He  said  he  would  return  with 
38 


206  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

the  night ;  the  king  of  Morven  is  returned !  Why 
didst  thou  not  tell  me  that  he  would  fall,  O  trembling 
dweller  of  the  rock  ?*  Thou  sawest  him  in  the  blood 
of  his  youth  ;  but  thou  didst  not  tell  Comala. 

Melilcoma.  What  sound  is  that  on  Ardven  ?  Who 
is  that  bright  in  the  vale  ?  Who  comes  like  the 
strength  of  rivers,  when  their  crowded  waters  glitter  to 
the  moon  ? 

Comala.  Who  is  it  but  the  foe  of  Comala,  the  son 
of  the  king  of  the  world  !  Ghost  of  Fingal !  do  thou, 
from  thy  cloud,  direct  Comala's  bow.  Let  him  fall 
like  the  hart  of  the  desert.  It  is  Fingal  in  the  crowd 
of  his  ghosts.  Why  dost  thou  come,  my  love,  to 
frighten  and  please  my  soul  ? 

Fingal.  Raise,  ye  bards,  the  song  ;  raise  the  wars 
of  the  streamy  Carun !  Caracul  has  fled  from  our 
arms  along  the  field  of  his  pride.  He  sets  far  distant 
like  a  meteor,  that  encloses  a  spirit  of  night,  when  the 
winds  drive  it  over  the  heath,  and  the  dark  woods  are 
gleaming  around.  I  heard  a  voice,  or  was  it  the  breeze 
of  my  hills  ?  Is  it  the  huntress  of  Ardven,  the  white- 
handed  daughter  of  Sarno  ?  Look  from  the  rocks,  my 
love  ;  let  me  hear  the  voice  of  Comala  ! 

Comala.  Take  me  to  the  cave  of  thy  rest,  O  lovely 
son  of  death ' 

Fingal.  Come  to  the  cave  of  my  rest.  The  storm 
is  past,  the  sun  is  on  our  fields.  Come  to  the  cave  of 
my  rest,  huntress  of  echoing  Ardven  ! 

Comala.  He  is  returned  with  his  fame  !  I  feel  the 
right  hand  of  his  wars !  But  I  must  rest  beside  the 
rock  till  my  soul  returns  from  my  fear !  O  let  the 
harp  be  near !  raise  the  song,  ye  daughters  of  Morna. 

Dersagrena.     Comala  has  slain  three  deer  on  Ard- 

*  By  the  "  dweller  of  the  rock"  she  means  a  Druid. 


COM ALA.  207 

ven,  the  fire  ascends  on  the  rock ;  go  to  the  feast  of 
Comala,  king  of  the  woody  Morven  ! 

Fingal.  Raise,  ye  sons  of  song,  the  wars  of  the 
streamy  Carun ;  that  my  white-handed  maid  may  re- 
joice :  while  I  behold  the  feast  of  my  love. 

Bards.  Roll,  streamy  Carun,  roll  in  joy,  the  sons 
of  battle  are  fled !  the  steed  is  not  seen  on  our  fields  ; 
the  wings  of  their  pride  spread  on  other  lands.  The 
sun  will  now  rise  in  peace,  and  the  shadows  descend  in 
joy.  The  voice  of  the  chase  will  be  heard  ;  the  shields 
hang  in  the  hall.  Our  delight  will  be  in  the  war  of 
the  ocean,  our  hands  shall  grow  red  in  the  blood  of 
Lochlin.  Roll,  streamy  Carun,  roll  in  joy,  the  sons 
of  battle  fled  ! 

Melilcoma.  Descend,  ye  light  mists  from  high  ! 
Ye  moonbeams,  lift  her  soul !  Pale  lies  the  maid  at 
the  rock  !  Comala  is  no  more ! 

Fingal.  Is  the  daughter  of  Sarno  dead  ;  the  white- 
bosomed  maid  of  my  love  ?  Meet  me,  Comala,  on 
my  heaths,  when  I  sit  alone  at  the  streams  of  my  hills. 

Hidattan,  Ceased  the  voice  of  the  huntress  of 
Ardven?  why  did  I  trouble  the  soul  of  the  maid? 
When  shall  I  see  thee,  with  joy,  in  the  chase  of  the 
dark-brown  hinds  ? 

Fingal.  Youth  of  the  gloomy  brow !  No  more 
shalt  thou  feast  in  my  halls !  Thou  shalt  not  pursue 
my  chase,  my  foes  shall  not  fall  by  thy  sword.  Lead 
me  to  the  place  of  her  rest,  that  I  may  behold  her 
beauty.  Pale  she  lies  as  the  rock,  the  cold  winds  lift 
her  hair.  Her  bow-string  sounds  in  the  blast,  her 
arrow  was  broken  in  her  fall.  Raise  the  praise  of  the 
daughter  of  Sarno !  give  her  name  to  the  winds  of 
heaven. 

Bards.  See !  meteors  gleam  around  the  maid ! 
See !  moonbeams  lift  her  soul !  Around  her,  from 
their  clouds,  bend  the  awful  faces  of  her  father ;  Sarno 


208  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

of  the  gloomy  brow  !  the  red-rolling  eyes  of  Fidallan ! 
When  shall  thy  white  hand  arise  ?  When  shall  thy 
voice  be  heard  on  our  rocks  ?  The  maids  shall  seek 
thee  on  the  heath,  but  they  shall  not  find  thee.  Thou 
shalt  come,  at  times,  to  their  dreams,  to  settle  peace  in 
their  soul.  Thy  voice  shall  remain  in  their  ears,  they 
shall  think  with  joy  on  the  dreams  of  their  rest.  Me- 
teors  gleam  around  the  maid,  and  moonbeams  lift  her 
soul ! 


CARRIC-THURA. 


ARGUMENT. 

Finga.,  returning  from  an  expedition  which  he  had  made  into  the 
Roman  province,  resolved  to  visit  Cathulla,  king  of  Inistore,  and 
brother  to  Comala,  whose  story  is  related  at  large  in  the  preced- 
ing dramatic  poem.  Upon  his  coming  in  sight  of  Carric-thura, 
the  palace  of  Cathulla,  he  observed  a  flame  on  its  top,  which,  in 
those  days,  was  a  signal  of  distress.  The  wind  drove  him  into  a 
bay,  at  some  distance  from  Carric-thura,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
pass  the  night  on  shore.  Next  day  he  attacked  the  army  of  Fro- 
thai,  king  of  Sora,  who  had  besieged  Cathulla  in  his  palace  of 
Carric-thura,  and  took  Frothal  himself  prisoner,  after  he  had  en- 
gaged him  in  a  single  combat.  The  deliverance  of  Carric-thura 
is  the  subject  of  the  poem ;  but  several  other  episodes  are  inter- 
woven with  it.  It  appears,  from  tradition,  that  this  poem  was 
addressed  to  a  Culdee,  or  one  of  the  first  Christian  missionaries, 
and  that  the  story  of  the  spirit  of  Loda,  supposed  to  be  the  ancient 
Odin  of  Scandinavia,  was  introduced  by  Ossian  in  opposition  to 
the  Culdee's  doctrine.  Be  this  as  it  will,  it  lets  us  into  Ossian'3 
notions  of  a  superior  Being  j  and  shows  us  that  he  was  not  ad- 
dicted to  the  superstition  which  prevailed  all  the  world  over,  be- 
fore the  introduction  of  Christianity. 

HAST  thou  left  thy  blue  course  in  heaven,  golden-haired 
son  of  the  sky  !  The  west  opened  its  gates ;  the  bed 
of  thy  repose  is  there.  The  waves  come  to  behold  thy 
beauty.  They  lift  their  trembling  heads.  They  see 
thee  lovely  in  thy  sleep  ;  they  shrink  away  with  fear. 
Rest  in  thy  shadowy  cave,  O  sun !  let  thy  return  be  in 

joy- 
But  let  a  thousand  lights  arise  to  the  sound  of  the 

harps  of  Selma :  let  the  beam  spread  in  the  hall,  the 
king  of  shells  is  returned  !  The  strife  of  Crona  is  past, 
like  sounds  that  are  no  more.  Raise  the  song,  O 
bards  !  the  king  is  returned  with  his  fame  ! 

Such  were  the  words  of  Ullin,  when  Fingal  returned 
from  war ;  when  he  returned  in  the  fair  blushing  of 
youth  with  all  his  -heavy  locks.     His  blue  arms  were 
18* 


210  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSLLW. 

on  the  hero ;  like  a  light  cloud  on  the  sun,  when  tie 
moves  in  his  robes  of  mist,  and  shows  but  half  his 
beams.  His  heroes  followed  the  king:  the  feast  of 
shells  is  spread.  Fingal  turns  to  his  bards,  and  bids 
the  song  to  rise. 

Voices  of  echoing  Cona !  he  said ;  O  bards  of  other 
times  !  Ye,  on  whose  souls  the  blue  host  of  our  fathers 
rise  !  strike  the  harp  in  my  hall :  and  let  me  hear  the 
song.  Pleasant  is  the  joy  of  grief;  it  is  like  the 
shower  of  spring  when  it  softens  the  branch  of  the  oak, 
and  the  young  leaf  rears  its  green  head.  Sing  on,  O 
bards  !  to-morrow  we  lift  the  sail.  My  blue  course  is 
through  the  ocean,  to  Carric-thura's  walls ;  the  mossy 
walls  of  Sarno,  where  Comala  dwelt.  There  the  noble 
Cathulla  spreads  the  feast  of  shells.  The  boars  of  his 
woods  are  many;  the  sound  of  the  chase  shall  arise ! 

Cronnan,  son  of  the  song !  said  Ullin ;  Minona, 
graceful  at  the  harp  !  raise  the  tale  of  Shilric,  to  please 
the  king  of  Morven.  Let  Vinvela  come  in  her  beauty, 
like  the  showery  bow,  when  it  shows  its  lovely  head 
on  the  lake,  and  the  setting  sun  is  bright.  She  comes, 
O  Fingal !  her  voice  is  soft,  but  sad. 

Vinvela.  My  love  is  a  son  of  the  hill.  He  pursues 
the  flying  deer.  His  gray  dogs  are  panting  around 
him ;  his  bow-string  sounds  in  the  wind.  Dost  thou 
rest  by  the  fount  of  the  rock,  or  by  the  noise  of  the 
mountain  stream  ?  The  rushes  are  nodding  to  the  wind, 
the  mist  flies  over  the  hill.  I  will  approach  my  love 
unseen ;  I  will  behold  him  from  the  sock.  Lovely  I 
saw  thee  first  by  the  aged  oak  of  Branno  ;  thou  wert 
returning  tall  from  the  chase ;  the  fairest  among  thy 
friends. 

Shilric.  What  voice  is  that  I  hear  ?  that  voice  like 
tlie  summer  wind !  I  sit  not  by  the  nodding  rushes ;  I 
near  not  the  fount  of  the  rock.  Afar,  Vinvela,  afar,  I 
go  to  the  wars  of  Fingal.  My  dogs  attend  me  no 


CARRIC-THURA.  211 

more.  No  more  I  tread  the  hill.  No  more  from  on 
high  I  see  thee,  fair  moving  by  the  stream  of  the  plain ; 
bright  as  the  bow  of  heaven ;  as  the  moon  on  the 
western  wave. 

Vinvela.  Then  thou  art  gone,  O  Shilric!  I  am 
alone  on  the  hill !  The  deer  are  seen  on  the  brow  :  void 
of  fear  they  graze  along.  No  more  they  dread  the 
wind  ;  no  more  the  rustling  tree.  The  hunter  is  far 
removed,  he  is  in  the  field  of  graves.  Strangers  !  sons 
of  the  waves  !  spare  my  lovely  Shilric  ! 

Shilric.  If  fall  I  must  in  the  field,  raise  high  my 
grave,  Vinvela.  Gray  stones,  and  heaped  up  earth, 
shall  mark  me  to  future  times.  When  the  hunter  shall 
sit  by  the  mound,  and  produce  his  food  at  noon,  "  some 
warrior  rests  here,"  he  will  say ;  and  my  fame  shall 
live  in  his  praise.  Remember  me,  Vinvela,  when  low 
on  earth  I  lie ! 

Vinvela.  Yes !  I  will  remember  thee  !  alas !  my 
Shilric  will  fall !  What  shall  I  do,  my  love,  when  thou 
art  for  ever  gone  ?  Through  these  hills  I  will  go  at 
noon  :  I  will  go  through  the  silent  heath.  There  I  will 
see  the  place  of  thy  rest,  returning  from  the  chase. 
Alas !  my  Shilric  will  fall ;  but  I  will  remember 
Shilric. 

And  I  remember  the  chief,  said  the  king  of  woody 
Morven ;  he  consumed  the  battle  in  his  rage.  But 
now  my  eyes  behold  him  not.  I  met  him  one  day  on 
the  hill ;  his  cheek  was  pale  :  his  brow  was  dark.  The 
sigh  was  frequent  in  his  breast :  his  steps  were  towards 
the  desert.  But  now  he  is  not  in  the  crowd  of  my 
chiefs,  when  the  sounds  of  my  shields  arise.  Dwells 
he  in  the  narrow  house,*  the  chief  of  high  Carmora  ? 

Cronnan  !  said  Ullin  of  other  times,  raise  the  song 
of  Shilric  !  when  he  returned  to  his  hills,  and  Vinvela 

*  The  grave. 


212  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

was  no  more.  He  leaned  on  her  gray  mossy  stone ; 
he  thought  Vinvela  lived.  He  saw  her  fair  moving  on 
the  plain ;  but  the  bright  form  lasted  not :  the  sunbeam 
fled  from  the  field,  and  she  was  seen  no  more.  Hear 
the  song  of  Shilric ;  it  is  soft,  but  sad  ! 

I  sit  by  the  mossy  fountain  ;  on  the  top  of  the  hill  of 
winds.  One  tree  is  rustling  above  me.  Dark  waves 
roll  over  the  heath.  The  lake  is  troubled  below.  The 
deer  descend  from  the  hill.  No  hunter  at  a  distance 
is  seen.  It  is  mid-day :  but  all  is  silent.  Sad  are  my 
thoughts  alone.  Didst  thou  but  appear,  O  my  love  ?  a 
wanderer  on  the  heath  ?  thy  hair  floating  on  the  wind 
behind  thee ;  thy  bosom  heaving  on  the  sight ;  thine 
eyes  full  of  tears  for  thy  friends,  whom  the  mists  of  the 
hill  had  concealed  ?  Thee  I  would  comfort,  my  love, 
and  bring  thee  to  thy  father's  house  ? 

But  is  it  she  that  there  appears,  like  a  beam  of  light 
on  the  heath  ?  bright  as  the  moon  in  autumn,  as  the 
sun  in  a  summer  storm,  comest  thou,  O  maid,  over 
rocks,  over  mountains,  to  me  ?  She  speaks :  but  how 
weak  her  voice !  like  the  breeze  in  the  reeds  of  the 
lake. 

"  Returnest  thou  safe  from  the  war  ?  Where  are  thy 
friends,  my  love  ?  I  heard  of  thy  death  on  the  hill ;  I 
heard  and  mourned  thee,  Shilric !  Yes,  my  fair,  I  re- 
turn :  but  I  alone  of  my  race.  Thou  shall  see  them 
no  more  ;  their  graves  I  raised  on  the  plain.  But 
why  art  thou  on  the  desert  hill  ?  Why  on  the  heath 
alone  ? 

"  Alone  I  am,  O  Shilric !  alone  in  the  winter-house. 
With  grief  for  thee  I  fell.  Shilric,  I  am  pale  in  the 
tomb." 

She  fleets,  she  sails  away ;  as  mist  before  the  wind ' 
and  wilt  thou  not  stay,  Vinvela  ?  Stay,  and  behold  m\ 
tears !  Fair  thou  appearest,  Vinvela !  fair  thou 
when  alive ! 


CARRIC-THTJRA.  213 

By  the  mossy  fountain  I  will  sit ;  on  the  top  of  the 
hills  of  winds.  When  mid-day  is  silent  around,  O  talk 
with  me,  Vinvela !  come  on  the  light- winged  gale !  on 
the  breeze  of  the  desert,  come !  Let  me  hear  thy  voice, 
as  thou  passest,  when  mid-day  is  silent  around ! 

Such  was  the  song  of  Cronnan,  on  the  night  of  Sel- 
ma's  joy.  But  morning  rose  in  the  east ;  the  blue 
waters  rolled  in  light.  Fingal  bade  his  sails  to  rise ; 
the  winds  came  rustling  from  their  hills.  Inistore  rose 
to  sight,  and  Carric-thui-a's  mossy  towers !  But  the  sign 
of  distress  was  on  their  top  :  the  warning  flame  edged 
with  smoke.  The  king  of  Morven  struck  his  breast : 
he  assumed  at  once  his  spear.  His  darkened  brow 
bends  forward  to  the  coast :  he  looks  back  to  the  lag- 
ging winds.  His  hair  is  disordered  on  his  back.  The 
silence  of  the  king  is  terrible ! 

Night  came  down  on  the  sea :  Rotha's  bay  received 
the  ship.  A  rock  bends  along  the  coast  with  all  its 
echoing  wood.  On  the  top  is  the  circle  of  Loda,  the 
mossy  stone  of  power  !  A  narrow  plain  spreads  beneath 
covered  with  grass  and  aged  trees,  which  the  midnight 
winds,  in  their  wrath,  had  torn  from  their  shaggy  rock. 
The  blue  course  of  a  stream  is  there  !  the  lonely  blast 
of  ocean  pursues  the  thistle's  beard.  The  flame  of 
three  oaks  arose :  the  feast  is  spread  round ;  but  the 
soul  of  the  king  is  sad,  for  Carric-thura's  chief  distrest. 

The  wan  cold  moon  rose  in  the  east.  Sleep  de- 
scended on  the  youths  !  Their  blue  helmets  glitter  to 
the  beam ;  the  fading  fire  decays.  But  sleep  did  not 
rest  on  the  king :  he  rose  in  the  midst  of  his  arms,  and 
slowly  ascended  the  hill,  to  behold  the  flame  of  Sarno's 
tower. 

The  flame  was  dim  and  distant ;  the  moon  hid  her 
red  face  in  the  east.  A  blast  came  from  the  mountain, 
on  its  wings  was  the  spirit  of  Loda.  He  came  to  his 
place  in  his  terrors,  and  shook  his  dusky  spear.  His 


214  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

eyes  appear  like  flames  in  his  dark  face  ;  his  voice  w 
like  distant  thunder.  Fingal  advanced  his  spear  in 
night,  and  raised  his  voice  on  high. 

Son  of  night,  retire ;  call  thy  winds,  and  fly !  Why 
dost  thou  come  to  my  presence,  with  thy  shadowy  arms  ? 
Do  I  fear  thy  gloomy  form,  spirit  of  dismal  Loda! 
Weak  is  thy  shield  of  clouds ;  feeble  is  that  meteor, 
thy  sword  !  The  blast  rolls  them  together  ;  and  thou 
thyself  art  lost.  Fly  from  my  presence,  son  of  night' 
call  thy  winds,  and  fly! 

Dost  thou  force  me  from  my  place  ?  replied  the  hol- 
low voice.  The  people  bend  before  me.  I  turn  the 
battle  in  the  field  of  the  brave.  I  look  on  the  nations, 
and  they  vanish :  my  nostrils  pour  the  blasts  of  death. 
I  come  abroad  on  the  winds ;  the  tempests  are  before 
my  face.  But  my  dwelling  is  calm,  above  the  clouds ; 
the  fields  of  my  rest  are  pleasant. 

Dwell  in  thy  pleasant  fields,  said  the  king:  Let 
Comhal's  son  be  forgot.  Do  my  steps  ascend  from  my 
hills  into  thy  peaceful  plains  ?  Do  I  meet  thee  with  a 
spear  on  thy  cloud,  spirit  of  dismal  Loda  ?  Why  then 
dost  thou  frown  on  me  ?  Why  shake  thine  airy  spear  ? 
Thou  frownest  in  vain :  I  never  fled  from  the  mighty 
in  war.  And  shall  the  sons  of  the  wind  frighten  the 
king  of  Morven  ?  No  !  he  knows  the  weakness  of  their 
arms ! 

Fly  to  thy  land,  replied  the  form  :  receive  thy  wind 
and  fly  ?  The  blasts  are  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand  ;  the 
course  of  the  storm  is  mine.  The  king  of  Sora  is  ni) 
son,  he  bends  at  the  stone  of  my  power.  His  battle  is 
around  Carric-thura  ;  and  he  will  prevail  !  Fly  to  thy 
land,  son  of  Comhal,  or  feel  my  flaming  wrath. 

He  lifted  high  his  shadowy  spear !  He  bent  forward 
his  dreadful  height.  Fingal,  advancing,  drew  his 
sword ;  the  blade  of  dark-brown  Luno.  The  gleam, 
ing  path  of  the  steel  winds  through  the  gloomy  ghost. 


CARRIC-TIIURA.  215 

The  form  fell  shapeless  into  the  air,  like  a  column  of 
smoke,  which  the  staff  of  the  boy  disturbs  as  it  rises 
from  the  half-extinguished  furnace. 

The  spirit  of  Loda  shrieked,  as,  rolled  into  himself, 
he  rose  on  the  wind.  Inistore  shook  at  the  sound. 
The  waves  heard  it  on  the  deep.  They  stopped  in 
\heir  course  with  fear ;  the  friends  of  Fingal  started  at 
once,  and  took  their  heavy  spears.  They  missed  the 
*ting :  they  rose  in  rage  ;  all  their  arms  resound  ! 

The  moon  came  forth  in  the  east.  Fingal  returned 
in  the  gleam  of  his  arms.  The  joy  of  his  youth  was 
great,  their  souls  settled,  as  a  sea  from  a  storm.  Ullin 
raised  the  song  of  gladness.  The  hills  of  Inistore  re- 
joiced. The  flame  of  the  oak  arose ;  and  the  tales  of 
heroes  are  told. 

But  Frothal  Sora's  wrathful  king  sits  in  sadness  be- 
neath a  tree.  The  host  spreads  around  Carric-thura. 
He  looks  towards  the  walls  with  rage.  He  longs  for 
the  blood  of  Cathulla,  who  once  overcame  him  in  war. 
When  Annir  reigned  in  Sora,  the  father  of  sea-borne 
Frothal,  a  storm  arose  on  the  sea,  and  carried  Frothal 
to  Inistore.  Three  days  he  feasted  in  Sarno's  halls,  and 
saw  the  slow-rolling  eyes  of  Comala.  JHe  loved  her  in 
the  flame  of  youth,  and  rushed  to  seize  the  white-armed 
maid.  Cathulla  met  the  chief.  The  gloomy  battle 
arose.  Frothal  was  bound  in  the  hall :  three  days  he 
pined  alone.  On  the  forth,  Sarno  sent  him  to  his  ship, 
and  he  returned  to  his  land.  But  wrath  darkened  in 
his  soul  against  the  noble  Cathulla.  When  Annir'a 
stone  of  fame  arose,  Frothal  came  in  his  strength. 
The  battle  burned  round  Carric-thura  and  Sarno's 
mossy  walls. 

Morning  rose  on  Inistore.  Frothal  struck  his  dark- 
brown  shield.  His  chiefs  started  at  the  sound ;  they 
stood,  but  their  eyes  were  turned  to  the  sea.  They 
saw  Fingal  coming  in  his  strength ;  and  first  the  noble 


216  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAlf. 

Tbubar  spoke,  "Who  comes,  like  the  stag  of  the  deaert, 
with  all  his  herd  behind  him  ?  Frothal,  it  is  a  foe  !  1 
see  his  forward  spear.  Perhaps  it  is  the  king  of  Mor- 
ven,  Fingal  the  first  of  men.  His  deeds  are  well  known 
in  Lochlin !  the  blood  of  his  foes  is  in  Sarno's  halls. 
Shall  I  ask  the  peace  of  kings  ?  His  sword  is  the  bolt 
of  heaven !" 

Son  of  the  feeble  hand,  said  Frothal,  shall  my  days 
begin  in  a  cloud  ?  Shall  I  yield  before  I  have  conquered, 
chief  of  streamy  Tora  ?  The  people  would  say  in  Sora, 
Frothal  flew  forth  like  a  meteor ;  but  a  darkness  hag 
met  him,  and  his  fame  is  no  more.  No,  Thubar,  I  will 
never  yield ;  my  fame  shall  surround  me  like  light. 
No :  I  will  never  yield,  chief  of  streamy  Tora ! 

He  went  forth  with  the  stream  of  his  people,  but  they 
met  a  rock  ;  Fingal  stood  unmoved,  broken  they  rolled 
back  from  his  side.  Nor  did  they  safely  fly  ;  the  spear 
of  the  king  pursued  their  steps.  The  field  is  covered 
with  heroes.  A  rising  hill  preserved  the  foe. 

Frothal  saw  their  flight.  The  rage  of  his  bosom 
rose.  He  bent  his  eyes  to  the  ground,  and  called  the 
»oble  Thubar.  Thubar !  my  people  are  fled.  My 
fame  has  ceased  to  rise.  I  will  fight  the  king;  I  feel 
my  burning  soul !  Send  a  bard  to  demand  the  combat. 
Speak  not  against  Frothal's  words !  But,  Thubar !  I 
love  a  maid ;  she  dwells  by  Thano's  stream,  the  white- 
bosomed  daughter  of  Herman,  Utha,  with  soft-rolling 
eyes.  She  feared  the  low-laid  Comala ;  her  secret 
sighs  rose  when  I  spread  the  sail.  Tell  to  Utha  of 
harps  that  my  soul  delighted  in  her. 

Such  were  his  words,  resolved  to  fight.  The  soft 
sigh  of  Utha  was  near !  She  had  followed  her  hero  in 
the  armor  of  a  man.  She  rolled  her  eye  on  the  youth, 
in  secret,  from  beneath  her  steel.  She  saw  the  bard 
as  he  went ;  the  spear  fell  thrice  from  her  hand !  Her 
loose  hair  flew  on  the  wind.  Her  white  breast  rose 


CARRIC-TUURA.  217 

with  sighs.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  king.  She 
would  speak,  but  thrice  she  failed. 

Fingal  heard  the  words  of  the  bard ;  he  came  in  the 
rtrength  of  his  steel.  They  mixed  their  deathful  spearn  : 
!hey  raised  the  gleam  of  their  arms.  But  the  sword  of 
Fingal  descended  and  cut  Frothal's  shield  in  twaii. 
His  fair  side  is  exposed ;  half-bent,  he  foresees  rus 
death.  Darkness  gathered  on  Utha's  soul.  The  tear 
rolled  down  her  cheek.  She  rushed  to  cover  the  chief 
with  her  shield  :  but  a  fallen  oak  met  her  steps.  She 
fell  on  her  arm  of  snow ;  her  shield,  her  helmet  flew 
wide.  Her  white  bosom  heaved  to  the  sigh ;  her  dark- 
brown  hair  is  spread  on  earth. 

Fingal  pitied  the  white-armed  maid !  he  stayed  the 
uplifted  sword.  The  tear  was  in  the  eye  of  the  king, 
as,  bending  forwai-d,  he  spoke,  "  King  of  streamy  Sora! 
fear  not  the  sword  of  Fingal.  It  was  never  stained 
with  the  blood  of  the  vanquished ;  it  never  pierced  a 
fallen  foe.  Let  thy  people  rejoice  by  their  native 
streams.  Let  the  maid  of  thy  love  be  glad.  Why 
shouldst  thou  fall  in  thy  youth,  king  of  streamy  Sora?" 
Frothal  heard  the  words  of  Fingal,  and  saw  the  rising 
maid :  they*  stood  in  silence,  in  their  beauty,  like  two 
young  trees  of  the  plain,  when  the  shower  of  spring  is 
on  their  leaves,  and  the  loud  winds  are  laid. 

Daughter  of  Herman,  said  Frothal,  didst  thou  come 
from  Tora's  streams  ?  didst  thou  come  in  thy  beauty 
to  behold  thy  warrior  low  ?  But  he  was  low  before  the 
mighty,  maid  of  the  slow-rolling  eye  !  The  feeble  did 
not  overcome  the  son  of  car-borne  Annir !  Terrible  art 
thou,  O  king  of  Morven !  in  battles  of  the  spear.  But, 
in  peace,  thou  art  like  the  sun  when  he  looks  through 
a  silent  shower :  the  flowers  lift  their  fair  heads  before 
him ;  the  gales  shake  their  rustling  wings.  O  that  thou 

*  Frothal  and  Utha. 
19 


218  THE  POEliS  OF  OSSIAjf. 

wert  in  Sora !  that  my  feast  were  spread !  The  future 
kings  of  Sora  would  see  thy  arms  and  rejoice.  They 
would  rejoice  at  the  fame  of  their  fathers,  who  beheld 
the  mighty  Fingal ! 

Son  of  Annk,  replied  the  king,  the  fame  of  Sora'a 
race  shall  be  heard !  When  chiefs  are  strong  in  war, 
then  does  the  song  arise !  But  if  their  swords  aro 
stretched  over  the  feeble  ;  if  the  blood  of  the  weak  has 
stained  their  arms  ;  the  bard  shall  forget  them  in  the 
song,  and  their  tombs  shall  not  be  known.  The  stran- 
ger shall  come  and  build  there,  and  remove  the  heaped, 
up  earth.  An  half- worn  sword  shall  rise  before  him  ; 
bending  above  it,  he  will  say,  "  These  are  the  arms  of 
the  chiefs  of  old,  but  their  names  are  not  in  song." 
Come  thou,  O  Frothal !  to  the  feast  of  Inistore  :  let  the 
maid  of  thy  love  be  there  ;  let  our  faces  brighten  with 
joy! 

Fingal  took  his  spear,  moving  in  the  steps  of  his 
might.  The  gates  of  Carric-thura  are  opened  wide. 
The  feast  of  shells  is  spread.  The  soft  sound  of  music 
arose.  Gladness  brightened  in  tbe  hall.  The  voice 
of  Ullin  was  heard ;  the  harp  of  Selma  was  strung. 
Utha  rejoiced  in  his  presence,  and  demanded  the  song 
of  grief;  the  big  tear  hung  in  her  eye  when  the  soft 
Crimora  spoke.  Crimora,  the  daughter  of  Rinval,  who 
dwelt  at  Lotha's  roaring  stream  !  The  tale  was  long, 
but  lovely ;  and  pleased  the  blushing  Utha. 

Crimora.  Who  cometh  from  the  hill,  like  a  cloud 
tinged  with  tbe  beam  of  the  west  ?  Whose  voice  ia 
that,  loud  as  the  wind,  but  pleasant  as  the  harp  of  Car- 
ril  ?  It  is  my  love  in  the  light  of  steel ;  but  sad  is  his 
darkened  brow !  Live  the  mighty  race  of  Fingai  ?  or 
what  darkens  Connal's  soul  ? 

ConnaL  They  live.  They  return  from  the  chase 
like  a  stream  of  light.  The  sun  is  on  their  shields. 
Like  a  ridge  of  fire  they  descend  the  hill.  Lcud  is  the 


CARRIC-THURA.  219 

voice  of  the  youth !  the  war,  my  love,  is  near !  To- 
morrow the  dreadful  Dargo  comes  to  tiy  the  force  of 
our  race.  The  race  of  Fingal  he  defies ;  the  race  of 
battles  and  wounds ! 

Crimora.  Connal,  I  saw  his  sails  like  gray  mist  on 
the  dark-brown  wave.  They  slowly  came  to  land. 
Connal,  many  are  the  warriors  of  Dargo. 

Connal.  Bring  me  thy  father's  shield,  the  bossy  iron 
shield  of  Rinval !  that  shield  like  the  full-orbed  mcoa, 
when  she  moves  darkened  through  heaven. 

Crimora.  That  shield  I  bring,  O  Connal !  but  it  did 
not  defend  my  father.  By  the  spear  of  Gormar  he  fell. 
Thou  mayst  fall,  O  Connal ! 

Connal.  Fall  I  may!  but  raise  my  tomb,  Crimora! 
Gray  stones,  a  mound  of  earth,  shall  send  my  name  to 
other  times.  Bend  thy  red  eye  over  rny  grave,  beat 
thy  mournful  heaving  breast.  Though  fair  thou  art, 
my  love,  as  the  light ;  more  pleasant  than  the  gale  of 
the  hill ;  yet  I  will  not  hear  remain.  Raise  my  tomb, 
Crimora ! 

Crimora.  Then  give  me  those  arms  that  gleam ; 
that  sword  and  that  spear  of  steel.  I  shall  meet  Dargo 
with  Connal,  and  aid  him  in  the  fight.  Farewell,  ye 
rocks  of  Ardven  !  ye  deer !  and  ye  streams  of  the  hill ! 
We  shall  return  no  more !  Our  tombs  are  distant  far ! 

"And  did  they  return  no  more  ?"  said  Utha's  burst- 
ing sigh.  "  Fell  the  mighty  in  battle,  and  did  Crimora 
live  ?  Her  steps  were  lonely ;  her  soul  was  sad  for 
Connal.  Was  he  not  young  and  lovely ;  like  the  beam 
of  the  setting  sun  ?  Ullin  saw  the  virgin's  tear,  he  took 
the  softly  trembling  harp ;  the  song  was  lovely,  but  sad, 
and  silence  was  in  Carric-thura. 

Autumn  is  dark  on  the  mountains ;  gray  mist  rests 
on  the  hills.  The  whirlwind  is  heard  on  the  heath. 
Dark  rolls  the  river  through  the  narrow  plain.  A  tree 
stands  alone  on  the  hill,  and  marks  the  slumbering 


220  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

Connal.  The  leaves  whirl  round  with  the  wind,  and 
strew  the  grave  of  the  dead.  At  times  are  seen  here 
the  ghosts  of  the  departed,  when  the  musing  hunter 
alone  stalks  slowly  over  the  heath. 

Who  can  reach  the  source  of  thy  race,  O  Connal! 
who  recount  thy  fathers  ?  Thy  family  grew  like  an  oak 
on  the  mountain,  which  meeteth  the  wind  with  its  lofty 
head.  But  now  it  is  torn  from  the  earth.  Who  shall 
supply  the  place  of  Connal  ?  Here  was  the  din  of  arms ; 
here  the  groans  of  the  dying.  Bloody  are  the  wars  of 
Fingal,  O  Connal !  it  was  here  thou  didst  fall.  Thine 
arm  was  like  a  storm ;  thy  sword  a  beam  of  the  sky ; 
thy  height  a  rock  on  the  plain  ;  thine  eyes  a  furnace  of 
fire.  Louder  than  a  storm  was  thy  voice,  in  the  battles 
of  thy  steel.  Warriors  fell  by  thy  sword,  as  the  thistles 
by  the  staff  of  a  boy.  Dargo  the  mighty  came  on, 
darkened  in  his  rage.  His  brows  were  gathered  into 
wrath.  His  eyes  like  two  caves  in  a  rock.  Bright 
rose  their  swords  on  each  side ;  loud  was  the  clang  of 
their  steel. 

The  daughter  of  Rinval  was  near ;  Crimora  bright 
in  the  armor  of  man  ;  her  yellow  hair  is  loose  behind, 
her  bow  is  in  her  hand.  She  followed  the  youth  to  the 
war,  Connal  her  much-beloved.  She  drew  the  string 
on  Dargo ;  but,  erring,  she  pierced  her  Connal.  He 
falls  like  an  oak  on  the  plain ;  like  a  rock  from  the 
shaggy  hill.  What  shall  she  do,  hapless  maid  ?  He 
bleeds  ;  her  Connal  dies  !  All  the  night  long  she  cries, 
and  all  the  day,  "  O  Connal,  rny  love,  and  my  friend  !" 
With  grief  the  sad  mourner  dies  !  Earth  here  encloses 
the  loveliest  pair  on  the  hill.  The  grass  grows  between 
the  stones  of  the  tomb:  I  often  sit  in  the  mournful  shade. 
The  wind  sighs  through  the  grass ;  their  memory  rushes 
on  my  mind.  Undisturbed  you  now  sleep  together; 
in  the  tomb  of  the  mountain  you  rest  alone ! 

And  soft  be  their  rest,  said  Utha,  hapless  children  of 


CARRIC-THURA.  221 

streamy  Lotha !  I  will  remember  them  with  tears,  and 
my  secret  song  shall  rise  j  when  the  wind  is  in  the 
groves  of  Tora,  when  the  stream  is  roaring  near. 
Then  shall  they  come  on  my  soul,  with  all  their  lovely 
grief ! 

Three  days  feasted  the  kings :  on  the  fourth  their 
white  sails  arose.  The  winds  of  the  north  drove  Fin. 
gal  to  Morven's  woody  land.  But  the  spirit  of  Loda 
sat  in  his  cloud  behind  the  ships  of  Frothal.  He  hung 
forward  with  all  his  blasts,  and  spread  the  white-bo- 
somed sails.  The  wounds  of  his  form  were  not  for- 
gotten !  he  still  feared  the  hand  of  the  king ! 
19* 


CARTHON. 

ARGUMENT. 

This  poem  is  complete,  and  the  subject  of  it,  as  of  most  Df  Ossian  • 
compositions,  tragical.  In  the  time  of  Comhal,  the  son  of  Tra- 
thal,  and  father  of  the  celebrated  Fingal,  Clessammor,  the  son  of 
Thaddu,  and  brother  of  Morna,  Fingal's  mother,  was  driver,  bv  a 
storm  into  the  river  Clyde,  on  the  banks  of  which  stood  Balclutna, 
a  town  belonging  to  the  Britons,  between  the  walls.  He  waa 
hospitably  received  by  Reuthamir,  the  principal  man  in  the  place, 
who  gave  him  Moina,  his  only  daughter,  in  marriage.  Reudo, 
the  son  of  Cormo,  a  Briton,  who  was  in  love  with  Moina,  came 
to  Reuthamir's  house,  and  behaved  haughtily  towards  Clessarn- 
mor.  A  quarrel  ensued,  in  which  Reuda  was  killed;  the  Brit- 
ons who  attended  him,  pressed  so  hard  on  Clessammor.  that  he 
was  obliged  to  throw  himself  into  the  Clyde  and  swim  to  his  ship. 
He  hoisted  sail,  and  the  wind  being  favorable,  bore  him  out  to 
sea.  He  often  endeavored  to  return,  and  carry  off  his  beloved 
Moina  by  night ;  but  the  wind  continuing  contrary,  he  was  forced 
to  desist. 

Moina,  who  had  been  left  with  child  by  her  husband,  brought  forth 
a  son,  and  died  soon  after.  Reuthamir  named  the  child  Carthon, 
t.  e.,  "the  murmur  of  waves,"  from  the  storm  which  carried  off 
Clessammor  his  father,  who  was  supposed  to  have  been  cast 
away.  When  Carthon  was  three  years  old,  Comhal,  the  father 
of  Fingal,  in  one  of  his  expeditions  against  the  Britons,  took  and 
burnt  Balclutha.  Reuthamir  was  killed  in  the  attack  ;  and  Car- 
thon was  carried  safe  away  by  his  nurse,  who  fled  farther  into 
the  country  of  the  Britons.  Carthon,  coming  to  man's  estate, 
was  resolved  to  revenge  the  fall  of  Balclutha  on  Comhal's  pos- 
terity. He  set  sail  from  the  Clyde,  and  falling  on  the  coast  of 
Morven,  defeated  two  of  Fingal's  heroes,  who  came  to  oppose  his 
progress.  He  was,  at  last,  unwittingly  killed  by  his  father  Cles- 
sammor, in  a  single  combat.  This  story  is  the  foundation  of  the 
present  poem,  which  opens  on  the  night  preceding  the  death  of 
Carthon,  so  that  what  passed  before  is  introduced  By  way  of  epi- 
sode. The  poem  is  addressed  to  Malvina,  the  daughter  of  Toscar. 

A  TALE  of  the  times  of  old  !  The  deeds  of  days  of 
other  years. 

The  murmur  of  thy  streams,  O  Lora !  brings  back 
the  memory  of  the  past.  The  sound  of  thy  woods, 
Garmaller,  is  lovely  in  mine  ear.  Dost  thou  not  be- 


CARTHON.  223 

hold,  Malvina,  a  rock  with  its  head  of  heath !  Three 
aged  pines  bend  from  its  face ;  green  is  the  narrow 
plain  at  its  feet ;  there  the  flower  of  the  mountain 
grows,  and  shakes  its  white  head  in  the  breeze.  The 
thistle  is  there  alone,  shedding  its  aged  beard.  Two 
stones,  half  sunk  in  the  ground,  show  their  heads  of 
moss.  The  deer  of  the  mountain  avoids  the  place,  for 
he  beholds  a  dim  ghost  standing  there.  The  mighty 
lie,  O  Malvina !  in  the  narrow  plain  of  the  rock. 

A  tale  of  the  times  of  old !  The  deeds  of  days  of 
other  years ! 

Who  comes  from  the  land  of  strangers,  with  his 
thousands  around  him  1  The  sunbeam  pours  its  bright 
stream  before  him  ;  his  hair  meets  the  wind  of  his  hills,. 
His  face  is  settled  from  war.  He  is  calm  as  the  even- 
ing beam  that  looks  from  the  cloud  of  the  west,  on 
Cona's  silent  vale.  Who  is  it  but  Comhal's  son,  the 
king  of  mighty  deeds !  He  beholds  the  hills  with  joy, 
he  bids  a  thousand  voices  rise.  "  Ye  have  fled  over 
your  fields,  ye  sons  of  the  distant  land !  The  king  of 
the  world  sits  in  his  hall,  and  hears  of  his  people's 
flight.  He  lifts  his  red  eye  of  pride ;  he  takes  his 
father's  sword.  Ye  have  fled  over  your  fields,  sons  of 
the  distant  land ! 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards,  when  they  came 
to  Selma's  halls.  A  thousand  lights  from  the  stranger's 
land  rose  in  the  midst  of  his  people.  The  feast  is 
spread  around  ;  the  night  passed  away  in  joy.  Where 
is  the  noble  Clessammor  ?  said  the  fair-haired  Fingal. 
Where  is  the  brother  of  Morna,  in  the  hour  of  my  joy  ? 
Sullen  and  dark,  he  passes  his  days  in  the  vale  of  echo- 
ing Lora :  but,  behold,  he  comes  from  the  hill,  like  a 
steed  in  his  strength,  who  finds  his  companions  in  the 
breeze,  and  tosses  his  bright  mane  in  the  wind.  Blest 
be  the  soul  of  Clessammor,  why  so  long  from  Selma  ? 

Returns  the  chief,  said  Clessammor,  in  the  midst  of 


224  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

his  fame  ?  Such  was  the  renown  of  Comhal  in  t^e 
battles  of  his  youth.  Often  did  we  pass  over  Carun  to 
the  land  of  the  strangers :  our  swords  returned,  not 
unstained  with  blood :  nor  did  the  kings  of  the  world 
rejoice.  Why  do  I  remember  the  times  of  our  war  ? 
My  hair  is  mixed  with  gray.  My  hand  forgets  to  bend 
the  bow :  I  lift  a  lighter  spear.  O  that  my  joy  would 
return,  as  when  1  first  beheld  the  maid  ;  the  white- 
bosomed  daughter  of  strangers,  Moina,  with  the  dark- 
blue  eyes ! 

Tell,  said  the  mighty  Fingal,  the  tale  of  thy  youthful 
days.  Sorrow,  like  a  cloud  on  the  sun,  shades  the  soul 
of  Clessammor.  Mournful  are  thy  thoughts,  alone,  on 
the  banks  of  the  roaring  Lora.  Let  us  hear  the  sor- 
row of  thy  youth  and  the  darkness  of  thy  days ! 

"  It  was  in  the  days  of  peace,"  replied  the  great  Cles- 
sammor, "  I  came  in  my  bounding  ship  to  Balclutha's 
walls  of  towers.  The  winds  had  roared  behind  my 
sails,  and  Clutha's  streams  received  my  dark-bosomed 
ship.  Three  days  I  remained  in  Reuthamir's  halls, 
and  saw  his  daughter,  that  beam  of  light.  The  joy  of 
the  shell  went  round,  and  the  aged  hero  gave  the  fair. 
Her  breasts  were  like  foam  on  the  waves,  and  her  eyes 
like  stars  of  light ;  her  hair  was  dark  as  the  raven's 
wing :  her  soul  was  generous  and  mild.  My  love  for 
Moina  was  great ;  my  heart  poured  forth  in  joy. 

"  The  son  of  a  stranger  came  ;  a  chief  who  loved 
the  white-bosomed  Moina.  His  words  were  mighty  in 
the  hall ;  he  often  half-unsheathed  his  sword.  '  Where,' 
said  he,  '  is  the  mighty  Comhal,  the  restless  wanderer 
of  the  heath  ?  Comes  he,  with  his  host,  to  Balclutha, 
since  Clessammor  is  so  bold  ?'  My  soul,  I  replied,  O 
warrior !  burns  in  a  light  of  its  own.  I  stand  without 
fear  in  the  midst  of  thousands,  though  the  valiant  are 
distant  far.  Stranger !  thy  words  are  mighty,  for  Cles- 
sammor is  alone.  But  my  sword  trembles  by  my  side, 


CARTHON. 

and  longs  to  glitter  in  my  hand.  Speak  no  more1  of 
Comhal,  son  of  the  winding  Clutha  ! 

"  The  strength  of  his  pride  arose.  "We  fought :  iw 
fell  beneath  my  sword.  The  banks  of  Clutha  heard  his 
fill! ;  a  thousand  spears  glittered  around.  I  fought : 
the  strangers  prevailed :  I  plunged  into  the  stream  of 
Clutha.  My  white  sails  rose  over  the  waves,  and  I 
bounded  on  the  dark-blue  sea.  Moina  came  to  the 
shore,  and  rolled  the  red  eye  of  her  tears ;  her  loose 
hair  flew  on  the  wind  ;  and  I  heard  her  mournful,  dis- 
tant cries.  Often  did  I  turn  my  ship ;  but  the  winds 
of  the  east  prevailed.  Nor  Clutha  ever  since  have  I 
seen,  nor  Moina  of  the  dark-brown  hair.  She  fell  in 
Balclutha,  for  I  have  seen  her  ghost.  I  knew  her  as 
she  came  through  the  dusky  night,  along  the  murmur 
of  Lora  :  she  was  like  the  new  moon,  seen  through  the 
gathered  mist ;  when  the  sky  pours  down  its  flaky 
snow,  and  the  world  is  silent  and  dark." 

Raise,  ye  bards,  said  the  mighty  Fingal,  the  praise 
of  unhappy  Moina.  Call  her  ghost,  with  your  songs, 
to  our  hills,  that  she  may  rest  with  the  fair  of  Morven, 
the  sunbeams  of  other  days,  the  delight  of  heroes  of 
old.  I  have  seen  the  walls  of  Balclutha,  but  they  were 
desolate.  The  fire  had  resounded  in  the  halls :  and 
the  voice  of  the  people  is  heard  no  more.  The  stream 
of  Clutha  was  removed  from  its  place  by  the  fall  of  the 
walls.  The  thistle  shook  there  its  lonely  head :  the 
moss  whistled  to  the  wind.  The  fox  looked  out  from 
the  windows,  the  rank  grass  of  the  wall  waved  round 
its  head.  Desolate  is  the  dwelling  of  Moina,  silence  is 
in  the  house  of  her  fathers.  Raise  the  song  of  mourn- 
ing,  O  bards,  over  the  land  of  strangers.  They  have 
but  fallen  before  us  :  for  one  day  we  must  fall.  Why 
dost  thou  build  the  hall,  son  of  the  winged  days  ?  Thou 
lookest  from  thy  towers  to-day :  yet  a  few  years,  and 
the  blast  of  the  desc  rt  comes ;  it  howls  in  thy  empty 


226  THE  POEML  OF  OSSLJL*. 

court,  and  whistles  round  thy  half- worn  shield,  /.a* 
let  the  blast  of  the  desert  come  !  we  shall  be  renowned 
in  our  day  !  The  mark  of  my  arm  shall  be  in  battle  ; 
my  name  in  the  song  of  bards.  Raise  the  song,  send 
round  the  shell :  let  joy  be  heard  in  my  hall.  When 
thou,  sun  of  heaven  !  shall  fail ;  if  thou  shalt  fail,  thou 
mighty  light !  if  thy  brightness  is  for  a  season,  like  Fin- 
gal ;  our  fame  shall  survive  thy  beams. 

Such  was  the  song  of  Fingal  in  the  day  of  his  joy. 
His  thousand  bards  leaned  forward  from  their  seats,  to 
hear  the  voice  of  the  king.  It  was  like  the  music  of 
harps  on  the  gale  of  the  spring.  Lovely  were  thy 
thoughts,  O  Fingal !  why  had  not  Ossian  the  strength 
of  thy  soul  ?  But  thou  standest  alone,  my  father !  who 
can  equal  the  king  of  Selma  ? 

The  night  passed  away  in  song ;  morning  returned 
in  joy.  The  mountains  showed  their  gray  heads ;  the 
blue  face  of  ocean  smiled.  The  white  wave  is  seen 
tumbling  round  the  distant  rock ;  a  mist  rose  slowly 
from  the  lake.  It  came,  in  the  figure  of  an  aged  man, 
along  the  silent  plain.  Its  large  limbs  did  not  move  in 
steps,  for  a  ghost  supported  it  in  mid  air.  It  came 
towards  Selma's  hall,  and  dissolved  in  a  shower  of 
blood.  * 

The  king  alone  beheld  the  sight;  he  foresaw  the 
death  of  the  people.  He  came  in  silence  to  'his  hall, 
and  took  his  father's  spear.  The  mail  rattled  on  his 
breast.  The  heroes  rose  around.  They  looked  in 
silence  on  each  other,  marking  the  eyes  of  Fingal. 
They  saw  battle  in  his  face ;  the  death  of  armies  on 
his  spear.  A  thousand  shields  at  once  are  placed  on 
their  arms ;  they  drew  a  thousand  swords.  The  hall 
of  Selma  brightened  around.  The  clang  of  arms  as- 
cends. The  gray  dogs  howl  in  their  place.  No  word 
is  among  the  mighty  chiefs.  Each  marked  the  eyes 
of  the  king  and  half-assumed  his  spear. 


CARTHON.  227 

Sons  of  Morven,  began  the  king,  this  is  no  time  to 
fill  the  shell ;  the  battle  darkens  near  us,  death  hovers 
over  the  land.  Some  ghost,  the  friend  of  Fingal,  has 
forewarned  us  of  the  foe.  The  sons  of  the  stranger 
come  from  the  darkly  rolling  sea ;  for  from  the  water 
came  the  sign  of  Morven's  gloomy  danger.  Let  each 
assume  his  heavy  spear,  each  gird  on  his  father's  sword. 
Let  the  dark  helmet  rise  on  every  head  ;  the  mail  pour 
its  lightning  from  every  side.  The  battle  gathers  like 
a  storm  ;  soon  shall  ye  hear  the  roar  of  death. 

The  hero  moved  on  before  his  host,  like  a  cloud  be- 
fore a  ridge  of  green  fire,  when  it  pours  on  the  sky  of 
night,  and  mariners  foresee  a  storm.  On  Cona's  rising 
heath  they  stood  :  the  white-bosomed  maids  beheld  them 
above  like  a  grove  ;  they  foresaw  the  death  of  the 
youth,  and  looked  towards  the  sea  with  fear.  The 
white  wave  deceived  them  for  distant  sails  ;  the  tear  is 
on  their  cheek !  The  sun  rose  on  the  sea,  and  we  be- 
held a  distant  fleet.  Like  the  mist  of  ocean  they  came 
and  poured  their  youth  upon  the  coast.  The  chief  was 
among  them,  like  the  stag  in  the  midst  of  the  herd. 
His  shield  is  studded  with  gold  ;  stately  strode  the  king 
of.  spears.  He  moved  towards  Selma  ;  his  thousands 
moved  behind. 

Go,  with  a  song  of  peace,  said  Fingal :  go,  Ullin,  to 
the  king  of  swords.  Tell  him  that  we  are  mighty  in 
war ;  that  the  ghosts  of  our  foes  are  many.  But  re- 
nowned are  they  who  have  feasted  in  my  halls ;  they 
show  the  arms  of  my  fathers  in  a  foreign  land ;  the 
sons  of  the  strangers  wonder,  and  bless  the  friends 
of  Morven's  race  ;  for  our  nanes  have  been  'heard 
afar :  the  kings  of  the  world  shook  in  the  midst  of  their 
host. 

Ullin  went  with  his  song.  Fingal  rested  on  his 
spear :  he  saw  the  mighty  foe  in  his  armor :  he  blest 
the  stranger's  son.  "  How  stately  art  thou,  son  of  the 


228  THK  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIC. 

sea!"  said  the  king  of  woody  Morven.  "  Thy  sword 
is  a  beam  of  fire  by  thy  side ;  thy  spear  is  a  pine  that 
defies  the  storm.  The  varied  face  of  the  moon  is  not 
broader  than  thy  shield.  Ruddy  is  thy  face  of  youth! 
soft  the  ringlets  of  thy  hair !  But  this  tree  may  fall, 
and  his  memory  be  forgot !  The  daughter  of  the  stran- 
ger will  be  sad,  looking  to  the  rolling  sea :  the  children 
will  say,  '  We  see  a  ship ;  perhaps  it  is  the  king  of 
Balclutha.'  The  tear  starts  from  their  mother's  eye  : 
her  thoughts  are  of  him  who  sleeps  in  Morven !" 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  king  when  Ullin  came  to 
the  mighty  Carthon  :  he  threw  down  the  ^spear  before 
him,  he  raised  the  song  of  peace.  "Come  to  the  feast 
of  Fingal,  Carthon,  from  the  rolling  sea  !  partake  of  the 
feast  of  the  king,  or  lift  the  spear  of  war  !  The  ghosts 
of  our  foes  are  many  :  but  renowned  are  the  friends  of 
Morven !  Behold  that  field,  O  Carthon  !  many  a  green 
hill  rises  there,  with  mossy  stones  and  rustling  grass  ; 
these  are  the  tombs  of  Fingal's  foes,  the  sons  of  the 
rolling  sea!" 

"  Dost  thou  speak  to  the  weak  in  arms  !"  said  Car- 
thon, "  bard  of  the  woody  Morven  ?  Is  my  face  pale  for 
fear,  son  of  the  peaceful  song  ?  Why  then  dost  thou 
think  to  darken  my  soul  with  the  tales  of  those  who  fell  ? 
My  arm  has  fought  in  battle,  my  renown  is  known  afar. 
Go  to  the  feeble  in  arms,  bid  them  yield  to  Fingal.  Have 
not  I  seen  the  fallen  Balclutha  ?  And  shall  I  feast  with 
Comhal's  son  ?  Comhal,  who  threw  his  fire  in  the  midst  of 
my  father's  hall  ?  I  was  young,  and  knew  not  the  cause 
why  the  virgins  wept.  The  columns  of  smoke  pleased 
mine  eye,  when  they  rose  above  my  walls !  I  often 
looked  back  with  gladness  when  my  friends  flew  along 
the  hill.  But  when  the  years  of  my  youth  came  on,  I 
beheld  the  moss  of  my  fallen  walls.  My  sigh  arose 
with  the  morning,  and  my  tears  descended  with  night. 
Shall  I  not  fight,  I  said  to  my  soul,  against  the  children 


CARTHON.  229 

of  my  foes  ?    And  I  will  fight.  O  bard !   I  feel  the 
strength  of  my  soul !" 

His  people  gathered  around  the  hero,  and  drew  at 
once  their  shining  swords.  He  stands  in  the  midst, 
like  a  pillar  of  fire,  the  tear  half-starting  from  his  eye, 
for  he  thought  of  the  fallen  Balclutha.  The  crowded 
pride  of  his  soul  arose.  Sidelong  he  looked  up  to  the 
hill,  where  our  heroes  shone  in  arms :  the  spear  trem- 
bled in  his  hand.  Bending  forward,  he  seemed  to 
threaten  the  king. 

Shall  I,  said  Fingal  to  his  soul,  meet  at  once  the 
youth  ?  Shall  I  stop  him  in  the  midst  of  his  course  be- 
fore his  fame  shall  arise !  But  the  bard  hereafter  may 
say,  when  he  sees  the  tomb  of  Carthon,  Fingal  took 
his  thousands  to  battle,  before  the  noble  Carthon  fell. 
No  :  bard  of  the  times  to  come  !  thou  shalt  not  lessen 
Fingal's  fame !  my  heroes  will  fight  the  youth,  and 
Fingal  behold  the  war.  If  he  overcomes,  I  rush,  in 
my  strength,  like  the  roaring  stream  of  Cona.  Who 
of  my  chiefs  will  meet  the  son  of  the  rolling  sea  ?  Many 
are  his  warriors  on  the  coast,  and  strong  is  his  ashen 
spear ! 

Cathul  rose  in  his  strength,  the  son  of  the  mighty 
Lormar:  three  hundred  youths  attend  the  chief,  the 
race  of  his  native  streams.  Feeble  was  his  arm  against 
Carthon  :  he  fell,  and  his  heroes  fled.  Connal  resumed 
the  battle,  but  he  broke  his  heavy  spear :  he  lay  bound 
on  the  field  :  Carthon  pursued  his  people. 

Clessammor,  said  the  king  of  Morven,  where  is  the 
spear  of  thy  strength  ?  Wilt  thou  behold  Connal  bound: 
thy  friend  at  the  stream  of  Lora  ?  Rise,  in  the  light  of 
thy  steel,  companion  of  valiant  Comhal !  let  the  youth 
of  Balclutha  feel  the  strength  of  Morven's  race.  He 
rose  in  the  strength  of  his  steel,  shaking  his  grisly 
locks.  He  fitted  the  steel  to  his  side ;  he  rushed  in 
the  pride  of  valor. 

20 


230  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS-AIT. 

Carthon  stood  on  a  rock :  he  saw  the  hero  rushing 
on.  He  loved  the  dreadful  joy  of  his  face :  his  strength 
in  the  locks  of  age  !  "  Shall  I  lift  that  spear,"  he  said, 
"  that  never  strikes  but  once  a  foe  ?  Or  shall  I,  with 
the  words  of  peace,  preserve  the  warrior's  life  ?  Stately 
are  his  steps  of  age  !  lovely  the  remnant  of  his  years ! 
Perhaps  it  is  the  husband  of  Moina,  the  father  of  car- 
borne  Carthon.  Often  have  I  heard  that  he  dwelt  at 
the  echoing  stream  of  Lora." 

Such  were  his  words  when  Clessammor  came,  and 
lifted  high  his  spear.  The  youth  received  it  on  his 
shield,  and  spoke  the  words  of  peace.  "  Warrior  of 
the  aged  locks !  is  there  no  youth  to  lift  the  spear  ? 
Hast  thou  no  son  to  raise  the  shield  before  his  father 
to  meet  the  arm  of  youth  ?  Is  the  spouse  of  thy  love 
no  more  ?  or  weeps  she  over  the  tombs  of  thy  sons  ? 
Art  thou  of  the  kings  of  men  ?  What  will  be  the  fame 
of  my  sword  shouldst  thou  fall  ?" 

It  will  be  great,  thou  son  of  pride !  begun  the  tall 
Clessammor.  I  have  been  renowned  in  battle,  but  I 
never  told  my  name  to  a  foe.*  Yield  to  me,  son  of 
the  wave,  then  shall  thou  know  that  the  mark  of  my 
sword  is  in  many  a  field.  "  I  never  yielded,  king  of 
spears  !"  replied  the  noble  pride  of  Carthon  :  "  I  have 
also  fought  in  war,  I  behold  my  future  fame.  Despise 
me  not,  thou  chief  of  men  !  my  arm,  my  spear  is  strong. 
Retire  among  thy  friends  ;  let  younger  heroes  fight." 
Why  dost  thou  wound  my  soul  ?  replied  Clessammor, 
with  a  tear.  Age  does  not  tremble  on  my  hand.  I  still 
can  lift  the  sword.  Shall  I  fly  in  Fingal's  sight,  in  the 


*  To  tell  one's  name  to  an  enemy,  was  reckoned,  in  those  days 
of  heroism,  a  manifest  evasion  of  fighting  him  ;  for  if  it  was  once 
known  that  friendship  subsisted  of  old,  between  the  ancestors  of  the 
combatants,  the  battle  immediately  ceased,  and  the  ancient  aniity 
of  their  forefathers  was  renewed.  "  A  man  who  tells  his  name  to 
his  enemy,"  was  of  old  an  ignominious  terra  for  a  coward. 


CARTHON.  231 

sight  of  him  I  love  1  Son  of  the  sea !  I  never  fled :  exalt 
thy  pointed  spear. 

They  fought  like  two  contending  winds,  that  strive 
to  roll  the  wave.  Carthon  bade  his  spear  to  err :  he 
still  thought  that  the  foe  was  the  spouse  of  Moina.  He 
broke  Clessammor's  beamy  spear  in  twain :  he  seized 
his  shining  sword.  But  as  Carthon  was  binding  the 
chief,  the  chief  drew  the  dagger  of  his  fathers.  He 
saw  the  foe's  uncovered  side,  and  opened  there  a 
wound. 

Fingal  saw  Clessammor  low  :  he  moved  in  the  sound 
of  his  steel.  The  host  stood  silent  in  his  presence : 
they  turned  their  eyes  to  the  king.  He  came  like  the 
sullen  noise  of  a  storm  before  the  winds  arise :  the 
hunter  hears  it  in  the  vale,  and  retires  to  the  cave  of 
the  rock.  Carthon  stood  in  his  place,  the  blood  is 
rushing  down  his  side  :  he  saw  the  coming  down  of  the 
king,  his  hopes  of  fame  arose,  but  pale  was  his  cheek : 
his  hair  flew  loose,  his  helmet  shook  on  high :  the  force 
of  Carthon  failed,  but  his  sword  was  strong. 

Fingal  beheld  the  hero's  blood  ;  he  stopt  the  uplifted 
spear.  "  Yield,  king  of  swords !"  said  Comhal's  son, 
"  1  behold  thy  blood ;  thou  hast  been  mighty  in  battle, 
and  thy  fame  shall  never  fade."  Art  thou  the  king  so 
far  renowned  ?  replied  the  car-borne  Carthon :  art  thou 
that  light  of  death,  that  frightens  the  kings  of  the  world  1 
But  why  should  Carthon  ask  ?  for  he  is  like  the  stream 
of  his  hills,  strong  as  a  river  in  his  course,  swift  as  the 
eagle  of  heaven.  O  that  I  had  fought  with  the  king, 
that  my  fame  might  be  great  in  song !  that  the  hunter, 
beholding  my  tomb,  might  say,  he  fought  with  the 
mighty  Fingal.  But  Carthon  dies  unknown :  he  has 
poured  out  his  force  on  the  weak. 

"  But  thou  shalt  not  die  unknown,  replied  the  king  of 
woody  M orven :  my  bards  are  many,  O  Carthon  !  their 
songs  descend  to  future  times.  The  children  of  years 


232  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

to  come  shall  hear  the  fame  of  Carthon,  when  they  sit 
round  the  burning  oak,  and  the  night  is  spent  in  songs 
of  old.  The  hunter,  sitting  in  the  heath,  shall  hear  the 
rustling  blast,  and  raising  his  eyes,  behold  the  rock 
where  Carthon  fell.  He  shall  turn  to  his  son,  and  show 
the  place  where  the  mighty  fought :  There  the  king 
of  Balclutha  fought,  like  the  strength  of  a  thousand 
streams." 

Joy  rose  in  Carthon's  face  ;  he  lifted  his  heavy  eyes. 
He  gave  his  sword  to  Fingal,  to  lie  within  his  hall,  that 
the  memory  of  Balclutha's  king  might  remain  in  Mor- 
ven.  The  battle  ceased  along  the  field,  the  bard  had 
sung  the  song  of  peace.  The  chiefs  gathered  round 
the  falling  Carthon ;  they  heard  his  words  with  sighs. 
Silent  they  leaned  on  their  spears,  while  Balclutha's 
hero  spoke.  His  hair  sighed  in  the  wind,  and  his  voice 
was  sad  and  low. 

"  King  of  Morven,"  Carthon  said,  "  I  fall  in  the  midst 
of  my  course.  A  foreign  tomb  receives,  in  youth,  the 
last  of  Reuthamir's  race.  Darkness  dwells  in  Bal- 
clutha; the  shadows  of  grief  in  Crathmo.  But  raise 
my  remembrance  on  the  banks  of  Lora,  where  my  fa- 
thers dwelt.  Perhaps  the  husband  of  Moina  will  mourn 
over  his  fallen  Carthon."  His  words  reached  the  heart 
of  Clessammor :  he  fell  in  silence  on  his  son.  The  host 
stood  darkened  around  :  no  voice  is  on  the  plain.  Night 
came :  the  moon,  from  the  east,  looked  on  the  mourn- 
ful field ;  but  still  they  stood,  like  a  silent  grove  that 
lifts  its  head  on  Gormal,  when  the  loud  winds  are  laid, 
and  dark  autumn  is  on  the  plain. 

Three  days  they  mourned  above  Carthon ;  on  the 
fourth  his  father  died.  In  the  narrow  plain  of  the  rock 
they  lie ;  a  dim  ghost  defends  their  tomb.  Thero 
lovely  Moina  is  often  seen,  when  the  sunbeam  darts  on 
the  rock,  and  all  around  is  dark.  There  she  is  seen, 
Malvina ;  but  not  like  the  daughters  of  the  hill.  Her 


CAKT1ION.  233 

robes  are  from  the   stranger's  land,  and  she  is  still 
alone  ! 

Fingal  was  sad  for  Carthon;  he  commanded  hia 
bards  to  mark  the  day  when  shadowy  autumn  returned ; 
and  often  did  they  mark  the  day,  and  sing  the  hero's 
praise.  "  Who  comes  so  dark  from  ocean's  roar,  like 
autumn's  shadowy  cloud  ?  Death  is  trembling  in  his 
hand  !  his  eyes  are  flames  of  fire  !  Who  roars  along 
darK  Losa's  heath  ?  Who  but  Carthon,  king  of  swords ! 
The  people  fall !  see  how  he  strides  like  the  sullen 
ghost  of  Morven  !  But  there  he  lies,  a  goodly  oak  which 
sudden  blasts  overturned  !  When  shalt  thou  rise,  Bal- 
clutha's  joy  ?  When,  Carthon,  shalt  thou  arise  ?  Who 
comes  so  dark  from  ocean's  roar,  like  autumn's  shad- 
owy cloud  ?"  Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards  in  the 
day  of  their  mourning  ;  Ossian  often  joined  their  voice, 
and  added  to  their  song.  My  soul  has  been  mournful 
for  Carthon  :  he  fell  in  the  days  of  his  youth  ;  and  thou, 

0  Clessammor !  where  is  thy  dwelling  in  the  wind  ? 
Has  the  youth  forgot  his  wound  ?    Flies  he  on  clouds 
with  thee  ?  I  feel  the  sun,  O  Malvina !  leave  me  to  my 
rest.     Perhaps  they  may  come  to  my  dreams  :  I  think 

1  hear  a  feeble  voice  !  The  beam  of  heaven  delights  to 
shine  on  the  grave  of  Carthon :  I  feel  it  warm  around. 

O  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of  my 
fathers  !  Whence  are  thy  beams,  O  sun  !  thy  everlast- 
ing light !  Thou  comest  forth  in  thy  awful  beauty ;  the 
stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky ;  the  moon,  cold  and 
pale,  sinks  in  the  western  wave  ;  but  thou  thyself  mov- 
est  alone.  Who  can  be  a  companion  of  thy  course  ? 
The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall ;  the  mountains  them- 
selves decay  with  years ;  the  ocean  shrinks  and  grows 
again ;  the  moon  herself  is  lost  in  heaven :  but  thou 
art  for  ever  the  same,  rejoicing  in  the  brightness  of  thy 
course.  When  the  world  is  dark  with  tempests,  when 
thunder  rolls  and  lightning  flies,  thou  lookest  in  thy 
20* 


234  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

beauty  from  the  clouds,  and  laughest  at  the  storm. 
But  to  Ossian  thou  lookest  in  vain,  for  he  beholds  thy 
beams  no  more :  whether  thy  yellow  hair  flows  on  the 
eastern  clouds,  or  thou  tremblest  at  the  gates  of  ihe 
west.  But  thou  art,  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a  season ; 
thy  years  will  have  an  end.  Thou  shalt  sleep  in  thy 
clouds,  careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning.  Exult 
then,  O  sun,  in  the  strength  of  thy  youth !  age  is  dark 
and  unlovely ;  it  is  like  the  glimmering  light  of  the 
moon,  when  it  shines  through  broken  clouds,  and  the 
mist  is  on  the  hills :  the  blast  of  the  north  is  on  the 
plain,  the  traveller  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his  journey. 


OINA-MORUL. 

ARGUMENT. 

After  an  address  tt  Malvina,  the  daughter  of  Toscar,  Ossian  pro- 
ceeds tc  relate  hia  own  expedition  to  Fuarfed,  an  island  of  Scan- 
dinavia. Mal-orchol,  king  of  Fuarfed,  being  hard  pressed  in  war 
by  Ton-thormod,  chief  of  Sar-dronto  (%vho  had  demanded  in  vain 
the  daughter  of  Mal-orchol  in  marriage,)  Fingal  sent  Ossian  to 
his  aid.  Ossian,  on  the  day  alter  his  arrival,  came  to  battle  with 
Ton-thormod,  and  took  him  prisoner.  Mah-orchol  offers  hia 
daughter,  Oina-morul,  to  Oss-ian  ;  but  he,  discovering  her  passion 
for  Ton-thormod,  generously  surrenders  her  to  her  lover,  and 
brings  about  a  reconciliation  between  the  two  kings. 

As  flies  the  inconstant  sun  over  Larmon's  grassy 
hill,  so  pass  the  tales  of  old  along  my  soul  by  night ! 
When  bards  are  removed  to  their  place,  when  harps  are 
hung  in  Selma's  hall,  then  comes  a  voice  to  Ossian, 
and  awakes  his  soul !  It  is  the  voice  of  years  that  are 
gone  !  they  roll  before  me  with  all  their  deeds  !  I  seize 
the  tales  as  they  pass,  and  pour  them  forth  in  song. 
Nor  a  troubled  stream  is  the  song  of  the  king,  it  is  like 
the  rising  of  music  from  Lutha  of  the  strings.  Lutha 
of  many  strings,  not  silent  are  thy  streamy  rocks,  when 
the  white  hands  of  Malvina  move  upon  the  harp!  Light 
of  the  shadowy  thoughts  that  fly  across  my  soul,  daugh- 
ter of  Toscar  of  helmnts,  wilt  thou  not  hear  the  song  ? 
We  call  back,  maid  of  Lutha,  the  years  that  have  rolled 
away  t  It  was  in  the  days  of  the  king,  while  yet  rny 
locks  were  young,  that  I  marked  Con-cathlin*  on  high, 
from  ocean's  nightly  wave.  My  course  was  towards 
the  isle  of  Fuarfed,  woody  dweller  of  seas  !  Fingal  had 
sent  me  to  the  aid  Mal-orchol,  king  of  Fuarfed  wild : 

*  Con-cathlin,  "  mild  beam  of  the  wave."  What  star  was  so 
called  of  old  is  not  easily  ascertained.  Some  now  distinguish  the 
pole-star  by  that  name. 


236  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

for  war  was  around  1dm,  and  our  fathers  had  met  at 
the  feast. 

In  Col-coiled  I  bound  my  sails.  I  sent  my  swora  to 
Mal-orchol  of  shells.  He  knew  the  signal  of  Albion, 
and  his  joy  arose.  He  came  from  his  own  high  hall, 
and  seized  my  hand  in  grief.  "  Why  comes  the  race 
of  heroes  to  a  falling  king  ?  Ton-thormod  of  many 
spears  is  the  chief  of  wavy  Sar-dronlo.  He  saw  and 
loved  my  daughter,  white-bosomed  Oina-morul.  He 
sought.  I  denied  the  maid,  for  our  fathers  had  been 
fcos.  He  came  with  battle  to  Fuarfed  ;  my  people  are 
rolled  away.  Why  comes  the  race  of  heroes  to  a  fall- 
ing king  ?" 

I  come  not,  I  said,  to  look,  like  a  boy,  on  the  strife. 
Fingal  remembers  Mal-orchol,  and  his  hall  for  strangers. 
From  his  waves  the  warrior  descended  on  thy  woody 
isle :  thou  wert  no  cloud  before  him.  Thy  feast  was 
spread  with  songs.  For  this  my  sword  shall  rise,  and 
thy  foes  perhaps  may  fail.  Our  friends  are  not  forgot 
in  their  danger,  though  distant  is  our  land. 

"  Descendant  of  the  daring  Trenmor,  thy  words  are 
like  the  voice  of  Cruth-Loda,  when  he  speaks  from  his 
parting  cloud,  strong  dweller  of  the  sky  !  Many  have 
rejoiced  at  my  feast ;  but  they  all  have  forgot  Mal- 
orchol.  I  have  looked  towards  all  the  winds,  but  no 
white  sails  were  seen  !  but  steel  resounds  in  my  hall, 
and  not  the  joyful  shells.  Come  to  my  dwelling,  race 
of  heroes  !  dark-skirted  night  is  near.  Hear  the  voice 
of  songs  from  the  maid  of  Fuarfed  wild." 

We  went.  On  the  harp  arose  the  white  hands  ot 
Oina-morul.  She  waked  her  own  sad  tale  from  every 
trembling  string.  I  stood  in  silence  ;  for  bright  in  hei 
locks  was  the  daughter  of  many  isles  !  Her  eyes  wert 
two  stars,  looking  forward  through  a  rushing  shower. 
The  mariner  marks  them  on  high,  and  blesses  the  lovely 
beams.  With  morning  we  rushed  to  battle,  to  TormuPa 


OINA-MORUL.  237 

resounding  stream :  the  foe  moved  to  the  sound  of  Ton- 
thormod's  bossy  shield.  From  wing  to  wing  the  strife 
was  mixed.  I  met  Ton-thormod  in  fight.  Wide  flew 
his  broken  steel.  I  seized  the  king  in  war.  I  gave 
his  hand,  fast  bound  with  thongs,  to  Mal-orchol,  the 
giver  of  shells.  Joy  rose  at  the  feast  of  Fuarfed,  for 
the  foe  had  failed.  Ton-thormod  turned  his  face  away 
from  Oina-morul  of  isles. 

Son  of  Fingal,  began  Mal-orchol,  not  forgot  shalt  thou 
pass  from  me.  A  light  shall  dwell  in  thy  ship,  Oina- 
moful  of  slow-rolling  eyes.  She  shall  kindle  gladness 
along  thy  mighty  soul.  Nor  unheeded  shall  the  maid 
move  in  Selma  through  the  dwelling  of  kings. 

In  the  hall  I  lay  in  night.  Mine  eyes  were  half 
closed  in  sleep.  Soft  music  came  to  mine  ear.  It  was 
like  the  rising  breeze,  that  whirls  at  first  the  thistle's 
beard,  then  flies  dark-shadowy  over  the  grass.  It  was 
the  maid  of  Fuarfed  wild  !  she  raised  the  nightly  song  ; 
she  knew  that  my  soul  was  a  stream  that  flowed  at 
pleasant  sounds.  "  Who  looks,"  she  said,  "  from  his 
rock  on  ocean's  closing  mist  ?  His  long  locks  like  the 
raven's  wing,  are  wandering  on  the  blast. — Stately  are 
his  steps  in  grief!  The  tears  are  in  his  eyes!  His 
manly  breast  is  heaving  over  his  bursting  soul!  Retire, 
I  am  distant  afar,  a  wanderer  in  lands  unknown. 
Though  the  race  of  kings  are  around  me,  yet  my  soul 
is  dark.  Why  have  our  fathers  been  foes,  Ton-thor- 
mod, love  of  maids !" 

"  Soft  voice  of  the  streamy  isle,"  I  said,  "  why  dost 
thou  mourn  by  night  ?  The  race  of  daring  Trenmoi 
are  not  the  dark  in  soul.  Thou  shalt  not  wander  by 
streams  unknown,  blue-eyed  Oina-morul !  within  this 
bosom  is  a  voice :  it  comes  not  to  other  ears :  it  bids 
Ossian  hear  the  hapless  in  their  hour  of  wo.  Retire, 
soft  singer  by  night !  Ton-thormod  shall  not  mourn  on 
his  rock !" 


238  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAK . 

With  morning  I  loosed  the  king.  I  gave  the  long- 
haired maid.  Mal-orchol  heard  my  words  in  the  midst 
of  his  echoing  halls.  "  King  of  Fuarfed  wild,  why 
should  Ton-thormod  mourn  ?  He  is  of  the  race  of  he- 
roes,  and  a  flame  in  war.  Your  fathers  have  been  foes, 
but  now  their  dim  ghosts  rejoice  in  death.  They 
stretch  their  hands  of  mist  to  the  same  shell  in  Loda. 
Forget  their  rage,  ye  warriors !  It  was  the  cloud  of 
other  years." 

Such  were  the  deeds  of  Ossian,  while  yet  his  locks 
were  young  ;  though  loveliness,  with  a  robe  of  beams, 
clothed  the  daughter  of  many  isles.  We  call  back, 
maid  of  Lutha,  the  years  that  have  rolled  away ! 


COLNA-DONA. 


ARGUMENT. 

Pingal  despatches  Ossian  and  Toscar,  the  son  of  Conloch,  and  father 
oi  Malvina,  to  raise  a  stone  on  the  banks  of  the  stream  of  Crona, 
to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  a  victory  which  he  had  obtained  in 
that  place.  When  they  were  employed  in  that  work,  Car-ul,  a 
neighboring  chief,  invited  them  to  a  feast.  They  went,  and 
Toscar  fell  desperately  in  love  with  Colna-dona,  the  daughter  of 
Car-ul.  Colna-dona  became  no  less  enamored  of  Toscar.  An 
incident  at  a  hunting  party  brings  their  loves  to  a  happy  issue. 

COL-AMON*  of  troubled  streams,  dark  wanderer  of 
distant  vales,  I  behold  thy  course,  between  trees  near 
Car-ul's  echoing  halls  !  There  dwelt  bright  Colna-dona, 
the  daughter  of  the  king.  Her  eyes  were  rolling  stars ; 
her  arms  were  white  as  the  foam  of  streams.  Her 
breast  rose  slowly  to  sight,  like  ocean's  heaving  wave. 
Her  soul  was  a  stream  of  light.  Who,  among  the  maids, 
was  like  the  love  of  heroes  ? 

Beneath  the  voice  of  the  king  we  moved  to  Cronaf 
of  the  streams,  Toscar  of  grassy  Lutha,  and  Ossian 
young  in  fields.  Three  bards  attended  with  songs. 
Three  bossy  shields  were  borne  before  us ;  for  we  were 
to  rear  the  stone  in  memory  of  the  past.  By  Crona's 
mossy  course  Fingal  had  scattered  his  foes ;  he  had 
rolled  away  the  strangers  like  a  troubled  sea.  We 
came  to  the  place  of  renown  ;  from  the  mountains  de- 
scended night.  I  tore  an  oak  from  its  hill,  and  raised 
a  flame  on  high.  I  bade  my  fathers  to  look  down  from 


*  Colna-dona  signifies  "  the  love  of  heroes."  Col-amon,  "  nar- 
row river."  Car-ul,  "  dark-eyed." 

t  Crona,  "  murmuring,"  was  the  name  of  a  small  stream  which 
discharged  itself  in  the  river  Carron. 


240  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

the  clouds  of  their  hall ;  for,  at  the  fame  of  their  race 
they  brighten  in  the  wind. 

I  took  a  stone  from  the  stream,  amidst  the  song  of 
bards.  The  blood  of  Fingal's  foes  hung  curdled  in  it3 
ooze.  Beneath  I  placed,  at  intervals,  three  bosses 
from  the  shield  of  foes,  as  rose  or  fell  the  sound  of 
Ullin's  nightly  song.  Toscar  laid  a  dagger  in  earth,  a 
mail  of  sounding  steel.  We  raised  the  mould  around 
the  stone,  and  bade  it  speak  to  other  years. 

Oozy  daughter  of  streams,  that  now  art  reared  on 
high,  speak  to  the  feeble,  O  stone  !  after  Selma's  race 
have  failed !  Prone  from  the  stormy  night,  the  travel- 
ler shall  lay  him  by  thy  side  :  thy  whistling  moss  shall 
sound  in  his  dreams ;  the  years  that  were  past  shall 
return.  Battles  rise  before  him,  blue-shielded  kings 
descend  to  war  :  the  darkened  moon  looks  from  heaven 
on  the  troubled  field.  He  shall  burst  with  morning 
from  dreams,  and  see  the  tombs  of  warriors  round. 
He  shall  ask  about  the  stone,  and  the  aged  shall  reply, 
"  This  gray  stone  was  raised  by  Ossian,  a  chief  of  other 
years  !" 

From  Col-amon  came  a  bard,  from  Car-ul,  the  friend 
of  strangers.  He  bade  us  to  the  feast  of  kings,  to  the 
dwelling  of  bright  Colna-dona.  We  went  to  the  hall 
of  harps.  There  Car-ul  brightened  between  his  aged 
locks,  when  he  beheld  the  sons  of  his  friends,  like  two 
young  branches  before  him. 

"  Sons  of  the  mighty,"  he  said,  "  ye  bring  back  the 
days  of  old,  when  first  I  descended  from  waves,  on 
Selma's  streamy  vale  !  I  pursued  Duthmocarglos, 
dweller  of  ocean's  wind.  Our  fathers  had  been  foes; 
we  met  by  Clutha's  winding  waters.  He  fled  along 
the  sea,  and  my  sails  were  spread  behind  him.  Night 
deceived  me  on  the  deep.  I  came  to  the  dwelling  of 
kings,  to  Selma  of  high-bosomed  maids.  Fingal  came 
forth  with  his  bards,  and  Conloch,  arm  of  heath.  I 


COLNA-DONA.  241 

feasted  three  days  in  the  hall,  and  saw  the  blue  eyes 
of  Erin,  Roscrana,  daughter  of  heroes,  light -of  Cor. 
nine's  race.  Nor  forgot  did  my  steps  depart :  the  kings 
gave  their  shields  to  Car-ul :  they  hang  on  high  in  Col- 
amon,  in  memory  of  the  past.  Sons  of  the  daring  kings, 
ye  bring  back  the  days  of  old  ! 

Car-ul  kindled  the  oak  of  feasts,  he  took  two  bosses 
from  our  shields.  He  laid  them  in  earth  beneath  a 
stone,  to  speak  to  the  hero's  race.  "  When  battle," 
said  the  king  *\v)\  roar,  and  our  sons  are  to  meet  in 
wrath,  my  race  shlill  IOOK  perhaps  on  this  stone,  when 
they  prepare  the  spear.  Have  not  our  fathers  met  in 
peace  ?  they  will  say,  and  lay  aside  the  shield." 

Night  came  down.  In  her  long  locks  moved  the 
daughter  of  Car-ul.  Mixed  with  the  harp  arose  the 
voice  of  white-armed  Colna-dona.  Toscar  darkened 
in  his  place  before  the  love  of  heroes.  She  came  on 
his  troubled  soul,  like  a  beam  to  the  dark-heaving 
ocean,  when  it  bursts  from  a  cloud,  and  brightens  the 
foamy  side  of  a  wave.* 

With  morning  we  awaked  the  woods,  and  hung  for- 
ward on  the  path  of  the  roes.  They  fell  by  their  wonted 
streams.  We  returned  through  Crona's  vale.  From 
the  wood  a  youth  came  forward,  with  a  shield  and 
pointless  spear. — "  Whence,"  said  Toscar  of  Lutha, 
"  is  the  flying  beam  ?  Dwells  there  peace  at  Col-amon, 
round  bright  Colna-dona  of  harps  ?" 

"  By  Col-amon  of  streams,"  said  the  youth,  "  bright 
Colna-dona  dwelt.  She  dwelt ;  but  her  course  is  now 
in  deserts  with  the  son  of  the  king ;  he  that  seized 
with  love  her  soul  as  it  wandered  through  the  hall." 


*  Here  an  episode  is  entirely  lost ;  or,  at  least,  is  handed  down 
•o  imperfectly,  that  it  does  not  deserve  a  place  in  the  poem. 
21 


242  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

"Stranger  of  tales,"  said  Toscar,  "hast  thou  marked 
the  warrior's  course  ?  He  must  fall ;  give  thou  that 
bossy  shield."  In  wrath  he  took  the  shield.  Fair 
behind  it  rose  the  breasts  of  a  maid,  white  as  the  bo- 
som of  a  swan,  rising  graceful  on  swift-rolling  waves. 
It  was  Colna-dona  of  harps,  the  daughter  of  the  king ! 
Her  blue  eyes  had  rolled  on  Toscar,  and  her  love 
\rose! 


OITHONA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Ganl,  the  son  of  Morni,  attended  Lathmon  into  his  own  crimfry, 
after  his  being  defeated  in  Morven,  as  related  in  a  preceding 
poem.  He  was  kindly  entertained  by  Nuath,  the  father  of  Lath- 
mon,  and  fell  in  love  with  his  daughter  Oithona.  The  lady  was 
no  less  enamored  of  Gaul,  and  a  day  was  fixed  for  their  mar- 
riage. In  the  mean  time  Fingal,  preparing  for  an  expedition  into 
the  country  of  the  Britons,  sent  for  Gaul.  He  obeyed,  and  went4, 
but  not  without  promising  to  Oithona  to  return,  if  he  survived  the 
war,  by  a  certain  day.  Lathmon  too  was  obliged  to  attend  his 
father  Nuath  in  his  wars,  and  Oithona  was  left  alone  at  Dunlath- 
mon,  the  seat  of  the  family.  Dunrommath,  Lord  of  Uthal,  sup- 
posed to  be  one  of  the  Orkneys,  taking  advantage  of  the  absence 
of  her  friends,  came  and  carried  off,  by  force,  Oithona,  who  had 
formerly  rejected  his  love,  into  Tromathon,  a  desert  island,  where 
he  concealed  her  in  a  cave. 

Oaul  returned  on  the  day  appointed  ;  heard  of  the  rape,  and  sailed 
to  Tromathon,  to  revenge  himself  on  Dunrommath.  When  he 
landed,  he  fomid  Oithona  disconsolate,  and  resolved  not  to  sur- 
vive the  loss  of  her  honor.  She  told  him  the  story  of  her  misfor- 
tunes, and  she  scarce  ended  when  Dunrommath  with  his  follow- 
ers appeared  at  the  farther  end  of  the  island.  Gaul  prepared  to 
attack  him,  recommending  to  Oithona  to  retire  till  the  battle  was 
over.  She  seemingly  obeyed:  but  khe  secretly  armed  herself, 
rushed  into  the  thickest  of  the  battle,  and  was  mortally  wounded. 
Gaul,  pursuing  the  flying  enemy,  found  her  just  expiring  on  the 
field ;  he  mourned  over  her,  raised  her  tornb,  and  returned  to 
Morven.  Thus  is  the  story  handed  down  by  tradition ;  nor  is  it 
given  with  any  material  difference  in  the  poem,  which  opena 
with  Gauls  return  to  Dunlathmon,  after  the  rape  of  Oithona. 

DARKNESS  dwells  around  Dunlathmon,  though  the 
rnoon  shows  half  her  face  on  the  hill.  The  daughter 
of  night  turns  her  eyes  away ;  she  beholds  the  ap- 
proaching grief.  The  son  of  Morni  is  on  the  plain : 
there  is  no  sound  in  the  hall.  No  long  streaming 
beam  of  light  comes  trembling  through  the  gloom.  The 
voice  of  Oithona  is  not  heard  amidst  the  noise  of  the 
streams  of  Duvranna.  "  Whither  art  thou  gone  in  thy 


244  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSU.N. 

beauty,  dark-haired  daughter  of  Nuath  ?  Lathmon  is 
in  the  field  of  the  valiant,  but  thou  didst  promise  to  re- 
main in  the  hall  till  the  son  of  Morni  returned.  Till 
he  returned  from  Strumon,  to  the  maid  of  his  love  ! 
The  tear  was  on  thy  cheek  at  his  departure ;  the  sigh 
rose  in  secret  in  thy  breast.  But  thou  dost  not  come 
forth  with  songs,  with  the  lightly  trembling  sound  of 
the  harp !" 

Such  were  the  words  of  Gaul,  when  he  came  to  Dun- 
lathmon's  towers.  The  gates  were  open  and  dark. 
The  winds  were  blustering  in  the  hall.  The  trees 
strewed  the  threshold  with  leaves  ;  the  murmur  of  night 
was  abroad.  Sad  and  silent,  at  a  rock,  the  son  of 
Morni  sat :  his  soul  trembled  for  the  maid ;  but  he 
knew  not  whither  to  turn  his  course  !  The  son  of  Leth 
stood  at  a  distance,  and  heard  the  winds  in  his  bushy 
hair.  But  he  did  not  raise  his  voice,  for  he  saw  the 
sorrow  of  Gaul ! 

Sleep  descended  on  the  chiefs.  The  visions  of  night 
arose.  Oithona  stood,  in  a  dream,  before  the  eyes  of 
Morni's  son.  Her  hair  was  loose  and  disordered  ;  her 
lovely  eye  rolled  deep  in  tears.  Blood  stained  her 
snowy  arm.  The  robe  half  hid  the  wound  of  her  breast. 
She  stood  over  the  chief,  and  her  voice  was  feebly 
heard.  "  Sleeps  the  son  of  Morni,  he  that  was  lovely  in 
the  eyes  of  Oithona  ?  Sleeps  Gaul  at  the  distant  rock, 
and  the  daughter  of  Nuath  low  ?  The  sea  rolls  round 
the  dark  isle  of  Troma'thon.  I  sit  in  my  tears  in  the 
cave  !  Nor  do  I  sit  alone,  O  Gaul !  the  dark  chief  of 
Cuthal  is  there.  He  is  there  in  the  rage  of  his  love. 
What  can  Oithona  do  ?" 

A  rougher  blast  rushed  through  the  oak.  The  dream 
of  night  departed.  Gaul  took  his  aspen  spear.  He 
stood  in  the  rage  of  his  soul.  Often  did  h;s  *>y*>g  turn 
to  the  east.  He  accused  the  lagging  light,  A.t  length 
the  morning  came  forth.  The  hero  lifted  up  .ho  sail. 


OITHONA.  245 

The  winds  came  rustling  from  the  hill  j  he  bounded  on 
the  waves  of  the  deep.  On  the  third  day  arose  Tro- 
mathon,  like  a  blue  shield  in  the  midst  of  the  sea.  The 
white  wave  roared  against  its  rocks ;  sad  Oithona  sat 
on  the  coast !  She  looked  on  the  rolling  waters,  and 
her  tears  came  down.  But  when  she  saw  Gaul  in  his 
arms,  she  started,  and  turned  her  eyes  away.  Her 
lovely  cheek  is  bent  and  red ;  her  white  arm  trembles 
by  her  side.  Thrice  she  strove  to  fly  from  his  pre- 
sence ;  thrice  her  steps  failed  as  she  went ! 

"  Daughter  of  Nuath,"  said  the  hero,  "  why  dost  thou 
fly  from  Gaul  ?  Do  my  eyes  send  forth  the  flame  of 
death  ?  Darkens  hatred  in  my  soul  ?  Thou  art  to  me 
the  beam  of  the  east,  rising  in  a  land  unknown.  But 
thou  coverest  thy  face  with  sadness,  daughter  of  car- 
borne  Nuath  !  Is  the  foe  of  Oithona  near !  My  soul 
burns  to  meet  him  in  fight.  The  sword  trembles  by 
the  side  of  Gaul,  and  longs  to  glitter  in  his  hand. 
Speak,  daughter  of  Nuath  !  Dost  thou  not  behold  my 
tears  ?" 

"  Young  chief  of  Strumon,"  replied  the  maid,  "  why 
comest  thou  over  the  dark-blue  wave,  to  Nuath's  mourn- 
ful daughter !  Why  did  I  not  pass  away  in  secret,  like 
the  flower  of  the  rock,  that  lifts  its  fair  head  unseen, 
and  strews  its  withered  leaves  on  the  blast !  Why  didst 
thou  come,  O  Gaul !  to  hear  my  departing  sigh !  I 
vanish  in  my  youth  ;  my  name  shall  not  be  heard.  Or 
it  will  be  heard  with  grief;  the  tears  of  Nuath  must 
fall.  Thou  wilt  be  sad,  son  of  Morni !  for  the  departed 
fame  of  Oithona.  But  she  shall  sleep  in  the  narrow 
tomb,  far  from  the  voice  of  the  mourner.  Why  didst 
thou  come,  chief  of  Strumon  !  to  the  sea-beat  rocks  of 
Tromathon !" 

"  I  came  to  meet  thy  foes,  daughter  of  car-borne 
Nuath !  The  death  of  Cuthal's  chief  darkens  before  me ; 
or  Morni's  son  shall  fall !  Oithona !  when  Gaul  is  low, 
21* 


246  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

raise  my  tomb  on  that  oozy  rock.  When  the  dark- 
bounding  ship  shall  pass,  call  the  sons  of  the  sea ;  call 
them,  and  give  this  sword,  to  bear  it  hence  to  Morni'a 
hall.  The  gray-haired  chief  will  then  cease  to  look 
towards  the  desert  for  the  return  of  his  son !" 

"  Shall  the  daughter  of  Nuath  live  ?"  she  replied, 
with  a  bursting  sigh.  "  Shall  I  live  in  Tromathon,  and 
the  son  of  Morni  low  ?  My  heart  is  not  of  that  rock ; 
nor  my  soul  careless  as  that  sea,  which  lifts  its  blue 
waves  to  every  wind,  and  rolls  beneath  the  storm  !  The 
blast  which  shall  lay  thee  low,  shall  spread  the  branches 
of  Oithona  on  earth.  We  shall  wither  together,  son 
of  car-borne  Morni !  The  narrow  house  is  pleasant  to 
me,  and  the  gray  stone  of  the  dead :  for  never  more 
will  I  leave  thy  rocks,  O  sea-surrounded  Tromathon ! 
Night  came  on  with  her  clouds  after  the  departure  of 
Lathmon,  when  he  went  to  the  wars  of  his  fathers,  to 
the  moss-covered  rock  of  Duthormoth.  Night  came 
on.  I  sat  in  the  hall,  at  the  beam  of  the  oak !  The 
wind  was  abroad  in  the  trees.  I  heard  the  sound  of 
arms.  Joy  rose  in  my  face.  I  thought  of  thy  return. 
It  was  the  chief  of  Cuthal,  the  red-haired  strength  of 
Dunrommath.  His  eyes  rolled  in  fire :  the  blood  of 
my  people  was  on  his  sword.  They  who  defended 
Oithona  fell  by  the  gloomy  chief !  What  could  I  do  ? 
My  arm  was  weak.  I  could  not  lift  the  spear.  He 
took  me  in  my  grief;  amidst  my  tears  he  raised  th« 
sail.  He  feared  the  returning  Lathmon,  the  brother  of 
unhappy  Oithona !  But  behold,  he  comes  with  hii 
people  !  the  dark  wave  is  divided  before  him  !  Whithev 
wilt  thou  turn  thy  steps,  son  of  Morni  ?  Many  are  tht 
warriors  of  thy  foe  !" 

"  My  steps  never  turned  from  battle,"  Gaul  said,  and 
unsheathed  his  sword:  "shall  I  then  begin  to  fear, 
Oithona  !  when  thy  foes  are  near  ?  Go  to  thy  cave,  my 
love,  till  our  battle  cease  on  the  field.  Son  of  Leth, 


OITHONA.  247 

bring  the  bows  of  our  fathers !  the  sounding  quiver  of 
Morni !  Let  our  three  warriors  bend  the  yew.  Our- 
selves  will  lift  the  spear.  They  are  a  host  on  the 
rock !  our  souls  are  strong  in  war  !" 

Oithona  went  to  the  cave.  A  troubled  joy  rose  on 
her  mind,  like  the  red  path  of  lightning  on  a  stormy 
cloud  !  Her  soul  was  resolved  :  the  tear  was  dried  from 
her  wildly-looking  eye.  Dunrommath  slowly  ap- 
proached. He  saw  the  son  of  Morni.  Contempt  con- 
tracted  his  face,  a  smile  is  on  his  dark-brown  cheek ; 
his  red  eye  rolled  half  concealed,  beneath  his  shaggy 
brows ! 

"  Whence  are  the  sons  of  the  sea  ?"  began  the 
gloomy  chief.  Have  the  winds  driven  you  on  the  rocks 
of  Tromathon  ?  or  corne  you  in  search  of  the  white- 
handed  maid  ?  the  sons  of  the  unhappy,  ye  feeble  men, 
come  to  the  hand  of  Dunrommath  !  His  eye  spares  not 
the  weak ;  he  delights  in  the  blood  of  strangers. 
Oithona  is  a  beam  of  light,  and  the  chief  of  Cuthal  en- 
joys it  in  secret ;  wouldst  thou  come  on  its  loveliness  like 
a  cloud,  son  of  the  feeble  hand  ?  Thou  mayest  come, 
but  shall  thou  return  to  the  halls  of  thy  fathers  ?" 

"Dost  thou  not  know  me,"  said  Gaul,  "red-haired 
^hief  of  Cuthal  ?  Thy  feet  were  swift  on  the  heath,  in 
'he  battle  of  car-borne  Lathmon ;  when  the  sword  of 
Morni's  son  pursued  his  host,  in  Morven's  woody  land. 
Dunrommath !  thy  words  are  mighty,  for  thy  warriors 

father  behind  thee.     But  do  I  fear  them,  son  of  pride  ? 
am  not  of  the  race  of  the  feeble  !" 
Gaul  advanced  in  his  arms ;  Dunrommath  shrunk  be- 
hind his  people.     But  the  spear  of  Gaul  pierced  the 
gloomy  chief:    his  sword  lopped  off  his  head,  as  it 
bended  in  death.     The  son  of  Morni  shook  it  thrice  by 
the  lock ;   the  warriors  of  Dunrommath  fled.      Tho 
arrows  of  Morven  pursued  them  :  ten  fell  on  the  mossy 
rocks.    The  rest  lift  the  sounding  sail,  and  bound  on  the 


248  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

troubled  deep.  Gaul  advanced  towards  the  cave  of 
Oithona.  He  beheld  a  youth  leaning  on  a  rock.  An 
arrow  had  pierced  his  side  ;  his  eye  rolled  faintly  be- 
neath his  helmet.  The  soul  of  Morni's  son  was  sad; 
he  came,  and  spoke  the  words  of  peace. 

"  Can  the  hand  of  Gaul  heal  thee,  youth  of  the 
mournful  brow  ?  I  have  searched  for  the  herbs  of  the 
mountains ;  I  have  gathered  them  on  the  secret  banks 
of  their  streams.  My  hand  has  closed  the  wound  of 
the  brave,  their  eyes  have  blessed  the  son  of  Morni. 
Where  dwelt  thy  fathers,  warrior  ?  Were  they  of  the 
sons  of  the  mighty !  Sadness  shall  come,  like  night, 
on  thy  native  streams.  Thou  art  fallen  in  thy  youth !" 

"  My  fathers,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  were  of  the 
race  of  the  mighty  ;  but  they  shall  not  be  sad ;  for  my 
fame  is  departed  like  morning  mist.  High  walls  rise 
on  the  banks  of  Duvranna;  and  see  their  mossy  towers 
in  the  stream ;  a  rock  ascends  behind  them  with  its 
bending  pines.  Thou  mayest  behold  it  far  distant. 
There  my  brother  dwells.  He  is  renowned  in  battle : 
give  him  this  glittering  helmet." 

The  helmet  fell  from  the  hand  of  Gaul.  It  was  the 
wounded  Oithona !  She  had  armed  herself  in  the  cave, 
and  came  in  search  of  death.  Her  heavy  eyes  are 
half  closed;  the  blood  pours  from  her  heaving  side. 
"  Son  of  Morni !"  she  said,  •'  prepare  the  narrow  tomb. 
Sleep  grows,  like  darkness,  on  my  soul.  The  eyes  of 
Oithona  are  dim !  O  had  I  dwelt  at  Duvranna,  in  the 
bright  beam  of  my  fame  !  then  had  my  years  come  on 
with  joy  ;  the  virgins  would  then  bless  my  steps.  But 
I  fall  in  youth,  son  of  Morni !  my  father  shall  blush  in 
his  hall !" 

She  fell  pale  on  the  rock  of  Tromathon.  The  mourn- 
ful  warrior  raised  her  tomb.  He  came  to  Morven  ;  we 
saw  the  darkness  of  his  soul.  Ossian  took  the  harp  in 
the  praise  of  Oithona.  The  brightness  of  the  face  of 


CROMA.  240 

Gaul  returned.  But  his  sigh  rose,  at  times,  in  the 
midst  of  his  friends ;  like  blasts  that  shake  their  unfre- 
quent  wings,  after  the  stormy  winds  are  laid ! 


CROMA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Malvina,  the  daughter  of  Toscar,  is  overheard  by  Ossian  lamenting 
the  death  of  Oscar  her  lover.  Ossian,  to  divert  her  grief,  relates 
his  own  actions  in  an  expedition  which  he  undertook,  at  Fingal's 
command,  to  aid  Crothar  the  petty  king  of  Croma,  a  country  in 
in  Ireland,  against  Rothmar,  who  invaded  his  dominions.  The 
story  is  delivered  down  thus  in  tradition.  Crothar,  king  of  Cro- 
ma, being  blind  with  age,  and  his  son  too  young  for  the  field, 
Rothmar,  the  chief  of  Tromo,  resolved  to  avail  himself  of  the  op- 
portunity offered  of  annexing  the  dominions  of  Crothar  to  his  own. 
He  accordingly  marched  into  the  country  subject  to  Crothar,  but 
which  he  hela  of  Arth  or  Artho,  who  was,  at  the  time,  supreme 
king  of  Ireland. 

Crothar  being,  on  account  of  his  age  and  blindness,  unfit  for  action, 
sent  for  aid  to  Fingal,  king  of  Scotland ;  who  ordered  his  son 
Ossian  to  the  relief  of  Crothar.  But  before  his  arrival  Fovar- 
gormo,  the  son  of  Crothar,  attacking  Rothmar,  was  slain  himself, 
and  his  forces  totally  defeated.  Ossian  renewed  the  war ;  came 
to  battle,  killed  Rothmar,  and  rputed  his  army.  Croma  being 
thus  delivered  of  its  enemies,  Ossian  returned  to  Scotland. 

"  IT  was  the  voice  of  my  love  !  seldom  art  thou  in 
the  dreams  of  Malvina  !  Open  your  airy  halls,  O  father 
of  Toscar  of  shields  !  Unfold  the  gates  of  your  clouds : 
the  steps  of  Malvina  are  near.  I  have  heard  a  voice 
in  my  dream.  I  feel  the  fluttering  of  my  soul.  Why 
didst  thou  come,  O  blast !  from  the  dark-rolling  face 
of  the  lake  ?  Thy  rustling  wing  was  in  the  tree  ;  the 
dream  of  Malvina  fled.  But  she  beheld  her  love  when 
his  robe  of  mist  flew  on  the  wind.  A  sunbeam  was  on 
his  skirts,  they  glittered  like  the  gold  of  the  stranger 


250  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

It  was  the  voice  of  my  love  !  seldom  comes  he  to  my 
dreams ! 

"  But  thou  dwellest  in  the  soul  of  Malvina,  son  of 
mighty  Ossian !  My  sighs  arise  with  the  beam  of  the 
east ;  my  tears  descend  with  the  drops  of  night.  I 
was  a  lovely  tree,  in  thy  presence,  Oscar,  with  all  my 
branches  round  me  ;  but  thy  death  came  like  a  blast 
from  the  desert,  and  laid  my  green  head  low.  The 
spring  returned  with  its  showers ;  no  leaf  of  mine 
arose !  The  virgins  saw  me  silent  in  the  hall ;  they 
touched  the  harp  of  joy.  The  tear  was  on  the  cheek 
of  Malvina  :  the  virgins  beheld  me  in  my  grief.  Why 
art  thou  sad,  they  said,  thou  first  of  the  maids  of  Lutha  ! 
Was  he  lovely  as  the  beam  of  the  morning,  and  stately 
in  thy  sight  ?" 

Pleasant  is  thy  song  in  Ossian's  ear,  daughter  of 
streamy  Lutha  !  Thou  hast  heard  the  music  of  departed 
bards  in  the  dream  of  thy  rest,  when  sleep  fell  on  thine 
eyes,  at  the  murmur  of  Moruth.  When  thou  didst  re- 
turn from  the  chase  in  the  day  of  the  sun,  thou  hast 
heard  the  music  of  bards,  and  thy  song  is  lovely !  It  is 
lovely,  O  Malvina  !  but  it  melts  the  soul.  There  is  a 
joy  in  grief  when  peace  dwells  in  the  breast  of  the  sad. 
But  sorrow  wastes  the  mournful,  O  daughter  of  Toscar! 
and  their  days  are  few  !  They  fall  away,  like  the  flower 
on  which  the  sun  hath  looked  in  his  strength,  after  the 
mildew  has  passed  over  it,  when  its  head  is  heavy  with 
the  drops  of  night.  Attend  to  the  tales  of  Ossian,  O 
maid!  He  remembers  the  days  of  his  youth  ! 

The  king  commanded ;  I  raised  my  sails,  and  rushed 
into  the  bay  of  Croma  ;  into  Croma's  sounding  bay  in 
lovely  Inisfail.*  High  on  the  coast  arose  the  towers 
of  Crothar  king  of  spears ;  Crothar  renowned  in  the 
battles  of  his  youth ;  but  age  dwelt  then  around  the 

one  of  the  ancient  names  of  Ireland. 


CKOMA.  251 

chief.  Rothmar  had  raised  the  sword  against  the  hero ; 
and  the  wrath  of  Fingal  burned.  He  sent  Ossian  to 
meet  Rothmar  in  war,  for  the  chief  of  Croma  was  the 
friend  of  his  youth.  I  sent  the  bard  before  me  with 
songs.  I  came  into  the  hall  of  Crothar.  There  sat 
the  chief  amidst  the  arms  of  his  fathers,  but  his  eyes 
had  failed.  His  gray  locks  waved  around  a  staff,  on 
which  the  warrior  leaned.  He  hummed  the  song  of 
other  times ;  when  the  sound  of  our  arms  reached  his 
ears  Crothar  rose,  stretched  his  aged  hand,  and  blessed 
the  son  of  Fingal. 

"  Ossian  !"  said  the  hero,  "  the  strength  of  Crothar's 
arm  has  failed.  O  could  I  lift  the  sword,  as  on  the 
day  that  Fingal  fought  at  Strutha !  He  was  the  first  of 
men ;  but  Crothar  had  also  his  fame.  The  king  of 
Morven  praised  me ;  he  placed  on  my  arm  the  bossy 
shield  of  Calthar,  whom  the  king  had  slain  in  his  wars. 
Dost  thou  not  behold  it  on  the  wall  ?  for  Crothar's  eyes 
have  failed.  Is  thy  strength  like  thy  father's,  Ossian  ! 
let  the  aged  feel  thine  arm !" 

I  gave  my  arm  to  the  king ;  he  felt  it  with  his  aged 
hands.  The  sigh  rose  in  his  breast,  and  his  tears  came 
down.  "  Thou  art  strong,  my  son,"  he  said,  "  but  not 
like  the  king  of  Morven !  But  who  is  like  the  hero 
among  the  mighty  in  war  ?  Let  the  feast  of  my  hall  be 
spread  ;  and  let  my  bards  exalt  the  song.  Great  is  he 
that  is  within  my  walls,  ye  sons  of  echoing  Croma !" 
The  feast  is  spread.  The  harp  is  heard  ;  and  joy  is  in 
the  hall.  But  it  was  joy  covering  a  sigh,  that  darkly 
dwelt  in  every  breast.  It  was  like  the  faint  beam  of 
the  moon  spread  on  a  cloud  in  heaven.  At  length  the 
music  ceased,  and  the  aged  king  of  Croma  spoke  ;  he 
spoke  without  a  tear,  but  sorrow  swelled  in  the  midst 
of  his  voice. 

"  Son  of  Fingal !  beholdest  thou  not  the  darkness  of 
Crothar's  joy  ?  My  soul  was  not  sad  at  the  feast,  when 


252  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

my  people  lived  before  me.  I  rejoiced  in  the  presence 
of  strangers,  when  my  son  shone  in  the  hall.  But, 
Ossian,  he  is  a  beam  that  is  departed.  He  left  no 
streak  of  light  behind.  He  is  fallen,  son  of  Fingal !  in 
the  wars  of  his  father.  Rothmar  the  chief  of  grassy 
Tromlo  heard  that  these  eyes  had  failed  ;  he  heard  that 
my  arms  were  fixed  in  the  hall,  and  the  pride  of  his 
soul  arose  !  He  came  towards  Croma  ;  my  people  fell 
before  him.  I  took  my  arms  in  my  wrath,  but  what 
could  sightless  Crothar  do  ?  My  steps  were  unequal ; 
my  grief  was  great.  I  wished  for  the  days  that  were 
past.  Days  !  wherein  I  fought ;  and  won  in  the  field 
of  blood.  My  son  returned  from  the  chase:  the  fair- 
haired  Fovar-gormo.  He  had  not  lifted  his  sword  in 
battle,  for  his  arm  was  young.  But  the  soul  of  the 
youth  was  great ;  the  fire  of  valor  burned  in  his  eyes. 
He  saw  the  disordered  steps  of  his  father,  and  his  sigh 
arose — "  King  of  Croma,"  he  said,  "  is  it  because  thou 
hast  no  son  ;  is  it  for  the  weakness  of  Fovar-gormo's 
arm  that  thy  sighs  arise  1  I  begin,  my  father,  to  feel 
my  strength ;  I  have  drawn  the  sword  of  my  youth ; 
and  I  have  bent  the  bow.  Let  me  meet  this  Rothmar, 
with  the  sons  of  Croma  :  let  me  meet  him,  O  my  father? 
I  feel  my  burning  soul !" — "And  thou  shalt  meet  him,'* 
I  said,  "  son  of  the  sightless  Grothar !  But  let  others 
advance  before  thee  that  I  may  hear  the  tread  of  thy 
feet  at  thy  return ;  for  my  eyes  behold  thee  not,  fair- 
haired  Fovar-gormo !"  He  went;  he  met  the  foe;  he 
fell.  Rothmar  advances  to  Croma.  He  who  slew  my 
son  is  near,  with  all  his  pointed  spears." 

This  is  no  time  to  fill  the  shell,  I  replied,  and  took 
my  spear !  My  people  saw  the  fire  of  my  eyes;  they 
all  arose  around.  Through  night  we  strode  along  the 
heath.  Gray  morning  rose  in  the  east.  A  green  nar- 
row vale  appeared  before  us ;  nor  wanting  are  its  wind- 
JS  streams.  The  dark  host  of  Rothmar  are  on  ita 


CctOMA.  253 

banks,  with  all  their  glittering  arms.  We  fought  along 
the  vale.  They  fled.  Rothmar  sunk  beneath  rr.y 
sword !  Day  had  not  descended  in  the  west,  when  I 
brought  his  arms  to  Crothar.  The  aged  hero  felt  thenr 
with  his  hands ;  and  joy  brightened  over  all  his  thoughts 

The  people  gather  to  the  hall  I  The  shells  of  the 
feast  are  heard.  Ten  harps  are  strung  ;  five  bards  ad- 
vance,  and  sing,  by  turns,  the  praisn  of  Ossian;  they 
poured  fourth  their  burning  souls,  and  the  string  an- 
swered  to  their  voice.  The  joy  of  Croma  was  great ; 
for  peace  returned  to  the  land.  The  night  came  on 
with  silence  ;  the  morning  returned  with  joy.  No  foe 
came  in  darkness  with  his  glittering  spear.  The  joy 
of  Croma  was  great;  for  the  gloomy  Rothmar  had 
fallen! 

I  raised  my  voice  for  Fovar-gormo,  when  they  laid 
the  chief  in  earth.  The  aged  Crothar  was  there,  but 
his  sigh  was  not  heard.  He  searched  for  the  wound 
of  his  son,  and  found  it  in  his  breast.  Joy  rose  in  the 
face  of  the  aged.  He  came  and  spoke  to  Ossian. 
"  King  of  spears !"  he  said,  "  my  son  has  not  fallen 
without  his  fame.  The  young  warrior  did  not  fly;  but 
met  death  as  he  went  forward  in  his  strength.  Happy 
are  they  who  die  in  youth,  when  their  renown  is  heard' 
The  feeble  will  not  behold  them  in  the  hall ;  or  smile 
at  their  trembling  hands.  Their  memory  shall  be  hon- 
ored in  song ;  the  young  tear  of  the  virgin  will  fall. 
But  the  aged  wither  away  by  degrees ;  the  fame  of 
their  youth,  while  yet  they  live,  is  all  forgot.  They 
fall  in  secret.  The  sigh  of  their  son  is  not  heard.  Joy 
is  around  their  tomb ;  the  stone  of  their  fame  is  placed 
without  a  tear.  Happy  are  they  who  die  in  their  youth, 
when  their  renown  is  around  them  t" 
22 


CALTHON  AND  COLMAL. 

ARGUMENT. 

This  piece,  as  many  more  of  Ossian's  compositions,  is  addressed  to 
one  of  the  first  Christian  missionaries.  The  story  of  the  poem  is 
handed  down  by  tradition  thus :— In  the  country  of  the  Britons, 
between  the  walls,  two  chiefs  lived  in  the  days  of  Fingal,  Dun- 
thalmo,  Lord  of  Tentha,  supposed  to  be  the  Tweed;  and  Rath- 
mor,  who  dwelt  at  Clutha,  well  known  to  be  the  river  Clyde. 
K  athmor  was  not  more  renowned  for  his  generosity  and  hospi- 
tality, than  Dunthalmo  was  infamons  for  his  cruelty  and  ambi- 
tion. Dunthalmo,  through  envy,  or  on  account  of  some  private 
feuds,  which  subsisted  between  the  families?  murdered  Rathmor 
at  a  feast ;  but  being  afterward  touched  with  remorse,  he  edu- 
cated the  two  sons  of  Rathmor,  Calthon  and  Colmar,  in  his  own 
house.  They  growing  up  to  man's  estate,  dropped  some  hints 
that  they  intended  to  revenge  the  death  of  their  father,  upon 
which  Dunthalmo  shut  them  up  in  two  caves,  on  the  banks  of 
Teulha,  intending  to  take  them  oft"  privately.  Colmal,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Dunthalmo,  who  was  secretly  in  love  with  Calthon,  helped 
him  to  make  his  escape  from  prison,  and  fled  with  him  to  Fingal. 
disguised  in  the  habit  of  a  young  warrior,  and  implored  his  aid 
against  Dunthalmo.  Fingal  sent  Ossian  with  three  hundred  men 
to  Colmar's  relief.  Dunthalmo,  having  previously  murdered  Col- 
mar,  came  to  a  battle  with  Ossian,  but  he  was  killed  by  that  hero, 
and  his  army  totally  defeated. 

Calthon  married  Colmal  his  deliverer;  and  Ossian  returned  to 
Morven. 

PLEASANT  is  the  voice  of  thy  song,  thou  lonely  dweller 
of  the  rock  !  It  comes  on  the  sound  of  the  stream,  along 
the  narrow  vale.  My  soul  awakes,  O  stranger,  in  the 
midst  of  my  hall.  I  stretch  my  hand  to  the  spear,  as 
in  the  days  of  other  years.  I  stretch  my  hand,  but  it 
is  feeble :  and  the  sigh  of  my  bosom  grows.  Wilt 
thou  not  listen,  son  of  the  rock  !  to  the  song  of  Ossian? 
My  soul  is  full  of  other  times  ;  the  joy  of  my  youth  re- 
turns. Thus  the  sun  appears  in  the  west,  after  the 
steps  of  his  brightness  have  moved  behind  a  storm:  the 
green  hills  lift  their  dewy  heads :  the  blue  'it  -earns  re- 


CALTHON  AND  COLMAL.  255 

joice  in  the  vale.  The  aged  hero  comes  forth  on  his 
staff;  his  gray  hair  glitters  in  the  beam.  Dost  thou 
not  behold,  son  of  the  rock  !  a  shield  in  Ossian's  hall  ? 
It  is  marked  with  the  strokes  of  battle  ;  and  the  bright- 
ness of  its  bosses  has  failed.  That  shield  the  great 
Dunthalmo  bore,  the  chief  of  streamy  Teutha.  Dun- 
thalmo  bore  it  in  battle  before  he  fell  by  Ossian's  spear. 
Listen,  son  of  the  rock  !  to  the  tale  of  other  years. 

Rathmor  was  a  chief  of  Clutha.  The  feeble  dwelt 
in  his  hall.  The  gates  of  Rathmor  were  never  shut : 
his  feast  was  always  spread.  The  sons  of  the  stranger 
came.  They  blessed  the  generous  chief  of  Clutha. 
Bards  raised  the  song,  and  touched  the  harp :  joy 
brightened  on  the  face  of  the  sad !  Dunthalmo  came, 
in  his  pride,  and  rushed  into  the  combat  of  Rathmor. 
The  chief  of  Clutha  overcame  :  the  rage  of  Dunthalmo 
rose.  He  came,  by  night,  with  his  warriors  ;  the 
mighty  Rathmor  fell.  He  fell  in  his  halls,  where  his 
feast  was  often  spread  for  strangers. 

Colmar  and  Calthon  were  young,  the  sons  of  car- 
borne  Rathmor.  They  came,  in  the  joy  of  youth,  into 
their  father's  hall.  They  behold  him  in  his  blood ; 
their  bursting  tears  descend.  The  soul  of  Dunthalmo 
melted,  when  he  saw  the  children  of  youth.  He  brought 
them  to  Alteutha's  walls ;  they  grew  in  the  house  of 
their  foe.  They  bent  the  bow  in  his  presence :  and 
came  forth  to  his  wars.  They  saw  the  fallen  walls  of 
their  fathers ;  they  saw  the  green  thorn  in  the  hall. 
Their  tears  rushed  forth  in  secret.  At  times  their  faces 
were  sad.  Dunthalmo  beheld  their  grief;  his  darken- 
ing soul  designed  their  death.  He  closed  them  in  two 
caves,  on  the  echoing  banks  of  Teutha.  The  sun  did 
not  come  there  with  his  beams ;  nor  the  moon  of  hea- 
ven by  night.  The  sons  of  Rathmor  remained  in  dark- 
ness, and  foresaw  their  death. 

The  daughter  of  Dunthalmo  wept  in  silence,  the  fair- . 


256  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIf. 

haired  blue-eyed  Colmal.  Her  eye  had  rolled  in  secret 
on  Calthon ;  his  loveliness  swelled  in  her  soul.  She 
trembled  for  her  warrior ;  but  what  could  Coimal  do  ? 
Her  arm  could  not  lift  the  spear ;  nor  was  the  swoid 
formed  for  her  side.  Her  white  breast  never  rose  be- 
neath a  mail.  Neither  was  her  eye  the  terror  of  he- 
roes. What  canst  thou  do,  O  Colmal  !  for  the  falling 
chief?  Her  steps  are  unequal ;  her  hair  is  loose  ;  her 
eye  looks  wildly  through  her  tears.  She  came,  by 
night,  to  the  hall.  She  armed  her  lovely  form  in  steel ; 
the  steel  of  a  young  warrior,  who  fell  in  the  first  of  his 
battles.  She  came  to  the  cave  of  Calthon,  and  loosed 
the  thong  from  his  hands. 

"  Arise,  son  of  Rathmor,"  she  said,  "  arise,  the  night 
is  dark  !  Let  us  fly  to  the  king  of  Selma,  chief  of  fallen 
Clutha !  I  am  the  son  of  Lamgal,  who  dwelt  in  thy  fa- 
ther's hall.  I  heard  of  thy  dark  dwelling  in  the  cave, 
and  my  soul  arose.  Arise,  son  of  Rathmor  !  arise,  the 
night  is  dark !" — "  Blest  voice  !"  replied  the  chief, 
"  comest.  thou  from  the  clouds  to  Calthon  ?  The  ghosts 
of  his  fathers  have  often  descended  in  his  dreams,  since 
the  sun  has  retired  from  his  eyes,  and  darkness  has 
dwelt  around  him.  Or  art  thou  the  son  of  Lamgal,  the 
chief  I  often  saw  in  Clutha  ?  But  shall  I  fly  to  Fingal, 
and  Col  mar  my  brother  low  ?  Will  I  fly  to  Morven, 
and  the  hero  closed  in  night  ?  No ;  give  me  that 
spear,  son  of  Lamgal ;  Calthon  will  defend  his  bro- 
ther !" 

"  A  thousand  warriors,"  replied  the  maid,  "  stretch 
their  spears  round  car-borne  Colmar.  What  can  Cal- 
thon  do  against  a  host  so  great  ?  Let  us  fly  to  the  king 
of  Morven,  he  will  come  with  war.  His  arm  is  stretched 
forth  to  the  unhappy ;  the  lightning  of  his  sword  is 
round  the  weak.  Arise,  thou  son  of  Rathmor ;  the 
shadows  will  fly  away.  Arise,  or  thy  steps  may  oe 
.  seen,  and  thou  must  fall  in  youth." 


CALTHON  AND  COLMAL.  257 

The  sighing  hero  rose ;  his  tears  descend  for  car- 
borne  Colmar.  He  came  with  the  maid  to  Selma'a 
hall :  but  he  knew  not  that  it  was  Colmal.  The  helmet 
covered  her  lovely  face.  Her  bosom  heaved  beneath 
the  steel.  Fingal  returned  from  the  chase,  and  found 
the  lovely  strangers.  They  were  like  two  beams  of 
light,  in  the  midst  of  the  hall  of  shells.  The  king  heard 
the  tale  of  grief,  and  turned  his  eyes  around.  A  thou- 
sand heroes  half  rose  before  him  ;  claiming  the  war  ot 
Teutha.  I  came  with  my  spear  from  the  hill ;  the  joy 
of  battle  rose  in  my  breast :  for  the  king  spoke  to  Os- 
sian  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  chiefs. 

"  Son  of  my  strength,"  began  the  king,  "  take  thou 
the  spear  of  Fingal.  Go  to  Teutha's  rushing  stream, 
and  save  the  car-borne  Colmar.  Let  thy  fame  return 
before  thee  like  a  pleasant  gale  ;  that  my  soul  may  re- 
joice over  my  son,  who  renews  the  renown  of  our  fa- 
thers. Ossian !  be  thou  a  storm  in  war ;  but  mild 
when  the  foe  is  low  !  it  was  thus  my  fame  arose,  O  my 
son  !  be  thou  like  Selma's  chief.  When  the  haughty 
come  to  my  halls,  my  eyes  behold  them  not.  But  my 
arm  is  stretched  forth  to  the  unhappy.  My  sword  de- 
fends the  weak." 

I  rejoiced  in  the  words  of  the  king.  I  took  my 
rattling  arms.  Diaran  rose  at  my  side,  and  Dargo, 
king  of  spears.  Three  hundred  youths  followed  our 
steps ;  the  lovely  strangers  were  at  my  side.  Dun- 
thalmo  heard  the  sound  of  our  approach.  He  gathered 
the  strength  of  Teutha.  He  stood  on  a  hill  with  his 
host.  They  were  like  rocks  broken  with  thunder, 
when  their  bent  trees  are  singed  and  bare,  and  the 
streams  of  their  chinks  have  failed.  The  stream  of 
Teutha  rolled  in  its  pride,  before  the  gloomy  foe.  I 
sent  a  bard  to  Dunthalmo,  to  offer  the  combat  on  the 
plain ;  but  he  smiled  in  the  darkness  of  his  pride.  His 
unsettled  host  moved  on  the  hill ;  like  the  mountain 
32* 


258  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIA* . 

cloud,  when  the  blast  has  entered  its  womb,  and  scat- 
ters the  curling  gloom  on  every  side. 

They  brought  Colmar  to  Teutha's  bank,  bound  wilh 
a.  thousand  thongs.  The  chief  is  sad,  but  stately.  His 
eye  is  on  his  friends  ;  for  we  stood  in  our  arms,  whilst 
Teutha's  waters  rolled  between.  Dunthalmo  came 
with  his  spear,  and  pierced  the  hero's  side :  he  rolled 
on  the  bank  in  his  blood.  We  heard  his  broken  sighs. 
Calthon  rushed  into  the  stream  :  I  bounded  forward  on 
my  spear.  Teutha's  race  fell  before  us.  Night  came 
rolling  down.  Dunthalmo  rested  on  a  rock5  amidst  an 
aged  wood.  The  rage  of  his  bosom  burned  against 
the  car-borne  Calthon.  But  Calthon  stood  in  grief;  he 
mourned  the  fallen  Colmar ;  Colmar  slain  in  youth  be- 
fore his  fame  arose ! 

I  bade  the  song  of  wo  to  rise,  to  soothe  the  mourn- 
ful chief;  but  he  stood  beneath  a  tree,  and  often  threw 
his  spear  on  the  earth.  The  humid  eye  of  Colma! 
rolled  near  in  a  secret  tear :  she  foresaw  the  fall  of 
Dunthalmo,  or  of  Clutha's  warlike  chief.  Now  half 
the  night  had  passed  away.  Silence  and  darkness  were 
on  the  field.  Sleep  rested  on  the  eyes  of  the  heroes  : 
Calthon's  settling  soul  was  still.  His  eyes  were  half 
closed ;  but  the  murmur  of  Teutha  had  not  yet  failed 
in  his  ear.  Pale,  and  showing  his  wounds,  the  ghost 
of  Colmar  came  :  he  bent  his  head  over  the  hero,  an*; 
raised  his  feeble  voice ! 

"  Sleeps  the  son  of  Rathmor  in  his  night,  and  his 
brother  low  ?  Did  we  not  rise  to  the  chase  together  ? 
Pursued  we  not  the  dark-brown  hinds  ?  Colmar  was 
not  forgot  till  he  fell,  till  death  had  blasted  his  youth 
1  lie  pale  beneath  the  rock  of  Lona.  O  let  Calthon 
rise  !  the  morning  comes  with  its  beams  ;  Dunthalmo 
•will  dishonor  the  fallen."  He  passed  away  in  his  blast 
The  rising  Calthon  saw  the  steps  of  his  departure.  He 
rushed  in  the  sound  of  his  steel.  Unhappy  Colmal  rose. 


CALTHON  AND  COLMAL.  259 

She  followed  her  hero  through  night,  and  dragged  her 
spear  behind.  But  when  Calthon  came  to  Lona's  rock, 
he  found  his  fallen  brother.  The  rage  of  his  bosom 
rose  ;  he  rushed  among  the  foe.  The  groans  of  death 
ascend.  They  close  around  the  chief.  He  is  bou.id 
in  the  midst,  and  brought  to  gloomy  Dunthalmo.  The 
shout  of  joy  arose  ;  and  the  hills  of  night  replied. 

I  started  at  the  sound ;  and  took  my  father's  spear. 
Diaran  rose  at  my  side  ;  and  the  youthful  strength  of 
Dargo.  We  missed  the  chief  of  Clutha,  and  our  souls 
were  sad.  I  dreaded  the  departure  of  my  fame.  The 
pride  of  my  valor  rose.  "  Sons  of  Morven,"  I  said,  "  it 
is  not  thus  our  fathers  fought.  They  rested  not  on  the 
field  of  strangers,  when  the  foe  was  not  fallen  before 
them.  Their  strength  was  like  the  eagles  of  heaven ; 
their  renown  is  in  the  song.  But  our  people  fall  by 
degrees.  Our  fame  begins  to  depart.  What  shall  the 
king  of  Morven  say,  if  Ossian  conquers  not  at  Teutha  ? 
Rise  in  your  steel,  ye  warriors,  follow  the  sound  of 
Ossian's  course.  He  will  not  return,  but  renowned, 
to  the  echoing  walls  of  Selma." 

Morning  rose  on  the  blue  waters  of  Teutha.  Colmal 
stood  before  me  in  tears.  She  told  of  the  chief  of 
Clutha  :  thrice  the  spear  fell  from  her  hand.  My  wrath 
turned  against  the  stranger  ;  for  my  soul  trembled  for 
Calthon.  "  Son  of  the  feeble  hand  !"  I  said,  "  do 
Teutba's  warriors  fight  with  tears  ?  The  battle  is  not 
won  with  grief;  nor  dwells  the  sigh  in  the  soul  of  war. 
Go  to  the  deer  of  Carmun,  to  the  lowing  herds  of 
Teutha.  But  leave  these  arms,  thou  son  of  fear !  A 
warrior  may  lift  them  in  fight." 

I  tore  the  mail  from  her  shoulders.  Her  snowy 
breast  appeared.  She  bent  her  blushing  face  to  the 
ground.  I  looked  in  silence  to  the  chiefs.  The  spear 
fell  from  my  hand  ;  the  sigh  of  my  bosom  rose  !  But 
when  I  heard  the  name  of  the  maid,  my  crowding  tears 


260  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

rushed  down.     I  blessed  the  lovely  beam  of  youth,  and 
bade  the  battle  move  ! 

Why,  son  of  the  rock,  should  Ossian  tell  how  Teutha's 
warriors  died  ?  They  are  now  forgot  in  their  land ; 
their  tombs  are  not  found  on  the  heath.  Years  came 
on  with  their  storms.  The  green  mounds  are  moul- 
dered away.  Scarce  is  the  grave  of  Dunthalmo  seen, 
or  the  place  where  he  fell  by  the  spear  of  Ossian. 
Some  gray  warrior,  half  blind  with  age,  sitting  by  night 
at  the  flaming  oak  of  the  hall,  tells  now  my  deeds  to 
his  sons,  and  the  fall  of  the  dark  Dunthalmo.  The 
faces  of  youth  bend  sidelong  towards  his  voice.  Sur- 
prise and  joy  burn  in  their  eyes !  I  found  Calthon  bound 
to  an  oak ;  my  sword  cut  the  thongs  from  his  hanas. 
I  gave  him  the  white-bosomed  Colmal.  They 
in  tne  halls  of  Teutha. 


THE  WAR  OF  CARDS. 

ARGUMENT. 

Caros  is  probably  the  noted  usurper  Carausius,  by  birth  a  Menapian. 
who  assumed  the  purple  in  the  year  2S4 ;  and,  seizing  on  Britain, 
defeated  the  emperor  Maximinian  Herculius  in  several  naval  en- 
gagements, which  gives  propriety  to  his  being  called  in  this  poem 
"  the  king  of  ships."  He  repaired  Agricola's  wall,  in  order  to 
obstruct  the  incursions  of  the  Caledonians,  and  when  he  was  em- 
ployed in  that  work,  it  appears  he  was  attacked  by  a  party  under 
the  command  of  Oscar  the  son  of  Ossian.  This  battle  is  the  foun- 
dation of  the  present  poem,  which  is  addressed  to  Malvina,  the 
daughter  of  1  oscar. 

BRING,  daughter  of  Toscar,  bring  the  harp  !  the  light 
of  the  song  rises  in  Ossian's  soul !  It  is  like  the  field, 
when  darkness  covers  the  hills  around,  and  the  shadow 
grows  slowly  on  the  plain  of  the  sun.  I  behold  my  son, 
O  Malvina  !  near  the  mossy  rock  of  Crona.  But  it  is 
the  mist  of  the  desert,  tinged  with  the  beam  of  the  west ! 
Lovely  is  the  mist  that  assumes  the  form  of  Oscar ! 
turn  from  it,  ye  winds,  when  ye  roar  on  the  side  of 
Ardven ! 

Who  comes  towards  my  son,  with  the  murmur  of  a 
song  ?  His  staff  is  in  his  hand,  his  gray  hair  loose  on 
the  wind.  Surly  joy  lightens  his  face.  He  often 
looks  back  to  Caros.  It  is  Ryno  of  songs,  he  that  went 
to  view  the  foe.  "  What  does  Caros,  king  of  ships  ?" 
said  the  son  of  the  now  mournful  Ossian :  "  spreads  he 
the  wings*  of  his  pride,  bard  of  the  times  of  old  ?" — 
"  He  spreads  them,  Oscar,"  replied  the  bard,  "  but  it  is 
behind  his  gathered  heap.f  He  looks  over  his  stonea 

*  The  Roman  eagle 

t  Agricola's  wall,  which  Carausius  repaired.' 


262  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

with  fear.     He  beholds  thee  terrible,  as  the  ghost  of 
night,  that  rolls  the  waves  to  his  ships !" 

"  Go,  thou  first  of  my  bards  !"  says  Oscar,  "  take  the 
spear  of  Fingal.  Fix  a  flame  on  its  point.  Shake  it 
to  the  winds  of  heaven.  Bid  him  in  songs,  to  advance, 
and  leave  the  rolling  of  his  wave.  Tell  to  Caros  that 
I  long  for  battle ;  that  my  bow  is  weary  of  the  chase 
of  Cona.  Tell  him  the  mighty  are  not  here  ;  and  that 
my  arm  is  young." 

He  went  with  the  murmur  of  songs.  Oscar  reared 
his  voice  on  high.  It  reached  his  heroes  on  Ardven, 
like  the  noise  of  a  cave,  when  the  sea  of  Togorma  rolls 
before  it,  and  its  trees  meet  the  roaring  winds.  They 
gather  round  my  son  like  the  streams  of  the  hill ;  when, 
after  rain,  they  roll  in  the  pride  of  their  course.  Ryno 
came  to  the  mighty  Caros.  He  struck  his  flaming 
spear.  Come  to  the  battle  of  Oscar.  O  thou  that  sit- 
test  on  the  rolling  waves !  Fingal  is  distant  far ;  he 
hears  the  songs  of  bards  in  Morven :  the  wind  of  his 
hall  is  in  his  hair.  His  terrible  spear  is  at  his  side  ;  his 
shield  that  is  like  the  darkened  moon !  Come  to  the 
battle  of  Oscar  ;  the  hero  is  alone. 

He  came  not  over  the  streamy  Carun.  The  bard 
returned  with  his  song.  Gray  night  grows  dim  on 
Crona.  The  feast  of  shells  is  spread.  A  hundred  oaks 
burn  to  the  wind ;  faint  light  gleams  over  the  heath. 
The  ghosts  of  Ardven  pass  through  the  beam,  and  show 
their  dim  and  distant  forms.  Comala*  is  half  unseen 
on  her  meteor ;  Hidallan  is  sullen  and  dim,  like  the 
darkened  moon  behind  the  mist  of  night. 

"Why  art  thou  sad?"  said  Ryno  ;  for  he  alone  be. 
held  the  chief.  "  Why  art  thou  sad,  Hidallan !  hast 
thou  not  received  thy  fame  ?  The  songs  of  Ossian  have 


*  This  is  the  scene  of  Comala's  death,  which  is  the  subject  of  the 
dramatic  poem. 


THE  WAR  OF  CAKOS.  263 

been  heard ;  thy  ghost  has  brightened  in  wind,  when 
thou  didst  bend  from  thy  cloud  to  hear  the  song  of  Mor- 
ven's  bard  !" — •"  And  do  thine  eyes,"  said  Oscar,  "be- 
hold the  chief,  like  the  dim  meteor  of  night?  Say, 
Ryno,  say,  how  fell  Hidallan,  the  renowned  in  the  days 
of  my  fathers !  His  name  remains  on  the  rocks  of 
Cona.  I  have  often  seen  the  streams  of  his  hills  !" 

Fingal,  replied  the  bard,  drove  Hidallan  from  his 
wars.  The  king's  soul  was  sad  for  Comala,  and  hig 
eyes  could  not  behold  the  chief.  Lonely,  sad,  along 
the  heath  he  .slowly  moved,  with  silent  steps.  His  arms 
hung  disordered  on  his  side.  "  His  hair  flies  loose  from 
his  brow.  The  tear  is  in  his  downcast  eyes ;  a  sigh 
half  silent  in  his  breast !  Three  days  he  strayed  unseen, 
alone,  before  he  came  to  Lamor's  halls :  the  mossy 
halls  of  his  fathers,  at  the  stream  of  Balva.  There 
Lamor  sat  alone  beneath  a  tree  ;  for  he  had  sent  his 
pedple  with  Hidallan  to  war.  The  stream  ran  at  his 
feet ;  hia  gray  head  rested  on  his  staff.  Sightless  are 
his  aged  eyes.  He  hums  the  song  of  other  times. 
The  noist?  of  Hidallan's  feet  came  to  his  ear  :  he  knew 
the  tread  of  his  son. 

"  Is  the  son  of  Lamor  returned ;  or  is  it  the  sound 
of  his  ghost  ?  Hast  thou  fallen  on  the  banks  of  Carun, 
son  of  the  aged  Lamor  ?  Or,  if  I  hear  the  sound  of 
Hidallan's  feet,  where  are  the  mighty  in  the  war  ? 
where  are  my  people,  Hidallan !  that  were  wont  to  re- 
turn with  their  echoing  shields  ?  Have  they  fallen  on 
the  banks  of  Carun  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  sighing  youth,  "  the  people  of 
Lamor  live.  They  are  renowned  in  war,  my  father  ! 
but  Hidallan  is  renowned  no  more.  I  must  sit  alone 
on  the  banks  of  Balva,  when  the  roar  of  the  battle 
grows." 

"  But  thy  fathers  never  sat  alone,"  replied  the  rising 
pride  of  Lamor.  "  They  never  sat  alone  on  the  banks 


5464  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSJAN. 

of  Balva,  when  the  roar  of  battle  rose.  Dost  thou  not 
behold  that  tomb  ?  My  eyes  discern  it  not ;  there 
rests  the  noble  Garmallon,  who  never  fled  from  war  ' 
Come,  thou  renowned  in  battle,  he  says,  come  to  thy 
father's  tomb.  How  am  I  renowned,  Garmallon  ?  my 
son  has  fled  from  war  !" 

"  King  of  the  streamy  Balva !"  said  Hidallan  witn  a 
sigh,  "  why  dost  thou  torment  my  soul  ?  Lamor,  J 
never  fled.  Fingal  was  sad  for  Comala ;  he  denied 
his  wars  to  Hidallan.  Go  to  the  gray  streams  of  thy 
land,  he  said  ;  moulder  like  a  leafless  oak,  which  the 
winds  have  bent  over  Balva,  never  more  to  grow." 

"  And  must  I  hear,"  Lamor  replied,  "  the  lonely 
tread  of  Hidallan's  feet  ?  When  thousands  are  re- 
nowned in  battle,  shall  he  bend  over  my  gray  streams  ? 
Spirit  of  the  noble  Garmallon  !  carry  Lamor  to  his 
place  ;  his  eyes  are  dark,  his  soul  is  sad,  his  son  has 
lost  his  fame."  • 

"  Where,"  said  the  youth,  "  shall  I  search  for  fame, 
to  gladden  the  soul  of  Lamor  ?  From  whence  shall  i 
return  with  renown,  that  the  sound  of  my  arms  may 
be  pleasant  in  his  ear  ?  If  I  go  to  the  chase  of  hinds, 
my  name  will  not  be  heard.  Lamor  will  not  feel  my 
dogs  with  his  hands,  glad  at  my  arrival  from  the  hill. 
He  will  not  inquire  of  his  mountains,  or  of  the  dark- 
biown  deer  of  his  deserts  !" 

"  I  must  fall,"  said  Lamor,  "  like  a  leafless  oak  :  it 
grew  on  a  rock  !  it  was  overturned  by  the  winds  !  My 
ghost  will  be  seen  on  my  hills,  mourni'ul  for  my  young 
Hidallan.  Will  not  ye,  ye  mists,  as  ye  rise,  hide  him 
from  my  sight !  My  son,  go  to  Lamor's  hall :  there 
the  arms  of  our  fathers  hang.  Bring  the  sword  of 
Garmallon :  he  took  it  from  a  foe  !" 

He  went  and  brought  the  sword  with  all  its  studded 
thongs.  He  gave  it  to  his  father.  The  gray -haired 
hero  felt  the  point  with  his  hand. 


THE  WAR  OF  CARDS.  265 

"  My  son,  lead  me  to  GarmSllon's  tomb :  it  rises 
leside  that  rustling  tree.  The  long  grass  is  wither- 
fcd  ;  I  hear  the  breezes  whistling  there.  A  little  foun. 
tain  murmurs  near,  and  sends  its  waters  to  Balva. 
There  let  me  rest  j  it  is  noon :  the  sun  is  on  our 
fields  !" 

He  led  him  to  Garmallon's  tomb.  Lamor  pierced 
the  side  of  his  son.  They  sleep  together :  their  an- 
cient halls  moulder  away.  Ghosts  are  seen  there  at 
noon  :  the  valley  is  silent,  and  the  people  shun  the 
place  of  Lamor. 

"  Mournful  is  thy  tale,"  said  Oscar,  "  son  of  the 
times  of  old  !  My  soul  sighs  for  Hidallan  ;  he  fell  in 
the  days  of  his  youth.  He  flies  on  the  blast  of  the 
desert :  his  wandering  is  in  a  foreign  land.  Sons  of 
the  echoing  Morven  !  draw  near  to  the  foes  of  Fingal. 
Send  the  night  away  in  songs  ;  watch  the  strength  of 
Caros.  Oscar  goes  to  the  people  of  other  times  ;  to 
the  shades  of  silent  Ardven,  where  his  fathers  sit  dim 
in  their  clouds,  and  behold  the  future  war.  And  art 
thou  there,  Hidallan,  like  a  half-extinguished  meteor  ? 
Come  to  my  sight,  in  thy  sorrow,  chief  of  the  winding 
Balva !" 

The  heroes  move  with  their  songs.  Oscar  slowly 
ascends  the  hill.  The  meteors  of  night  set  on  the 
heath  before  him.  A  distant  torrent  faintly  roars. 
Unfrequent  blasts  rush  through  aged  oaks.  The  half, 
enlightened  moon  sinks  dim  and  red  behind  her  hill. 
Feeble  voices  are  heard  on  the  heath.  Oscar  drew 
his  sword  ! 

"  Come,"  said  the  hero,  "  O  ye  ghosts  of  my  fathers ! 
ye  that  fought  against  the  kings  of  the  world  !  Tell 
me  the  deeds  of  future  times ;  and  your  converse  in 
your  caves,  when  you  talk  together,  and  behold  your 
sons  in  the  fields  of  the  brave  !" 

Trenmor  came  from  his  hill  at  the  voice  of  hia 
23 


266  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIC. 

mighty  son.  A  cloud,  like  the  steed  of  the  stranger, 
supported  his  airy  limbs.  His  robe  is  of  the  mist  of 
Lano,  that  brings  death  to  the  people.  His  swcri  is 
a  green  meteor,  half-extinguished.  His  face  is  •vith- 
out  form,  and  dark.  He  sighed  thrice  over  the  hero  : 
thrice  the  winds  of  night  roared  around  !  Many  were 
his  words  to  Oscar  ;  but  they  only  came  by  halves  to 
our  ears  ;  they  were  dark  as  the  tales  of  other  times, 
before  the  light  of  the  song  arose.  He  slowly  vanish- 
ed, like  a  mist  that  melts  on  the  sunny  hill.  It  was 
then,  O  daughter  of  Toscar  !  my  son  began  first  to  be 
sad.  He  foresaw  the  fall  of  his  race.  At  times  he 
was  thoughtful  and  dark,  like  the  sun  when  he  carries 
a  cloud  on  his  face,  but  again  he  looks  forth  from  his 
darkness  on  the  green  hills  of  Cona. 

Oscar  passed  the  night  among  his  fathers :  gray 
morning  met  him  on  Carun's  banks.  A  green  vale 
surrounded  a  tomb  which  arose  in  the  times  of  old. 
Little  hills  lift  their  heads  at  a  distance,  and  stretch 
their  old  trees  to  the  wind.  The  warriors  of  Caros 
sat  there,  for  they  had  passed  the  stream  by  night. 
They  appeared  like  the  trunks  of  aged  pines,  to  the 
pale  light  of  the  morning.  Oscar  stood  at  the  tomb, 
and  raised  thrice  his  terrible  voice.  The  rocking  hills 
echoed  around  ;  the  starting  roes  bounded  away  :  and 
the  trembling  ghosts  of  the  dead  fled,  shrieking  on  their 
clouds.  So  terrible  was  the  voice  of  my  son,  when  he 
called  his  friends ! 

A  thousand  spears  arose  around ;  the  people  of 
Caros  rose.  Why,  daughter  of  Toscar,  why  that  tear  ? 
My  son,  though  alone,  is  brave.  Oscar  is  like  a  beam 
of  the  sky  ;  he  turns  around,  and  the  people  fall.  His 
hand  is  the  arm  of  a  ghost,  when  he  stretches  it  from 
a  cloud  ;  the  rest  of  his  thin  form  is  unseen  ;  but  the 
people  die  in  the  vale  !  My  son  beheld  the  approach 
of  the  foe  j  he  stood  in  the  silent  darkness  of  his 


THE  WAR  OF  CARDS.  267 

strength.  "  Am  I  alone,"  said  Oscar,  "  in  the  midst 
of  a  thousand  foes  ?  Many  a  spear  is  there  !  many  a 
darkly-rolling  eye.  Shall  I  fly  to  Ardven  ?  But  did 
my  fathers  ever  fly  ?  The  mark  of  their  arm  is  in  a 
thousand  battles.  Oscar  too  shall  be  renowned. 
Come,  ye  dim  ghosts  of  my  fathers,  and  behold  my 
deeds  in  war  !  I  may  fall  ;  but  I  will  be  renowned 
like  the  race  of  the  echoing  Morven."  He  stood, 
growing  in  his  place,  like  a  flood  in  a  narrow  vale  ! 
The  battle  came,  but  they  fell :  bloody  was  the  sword 
of  Oscar  ! 

The  noise  reached  his  people  at  Crona  ;  they  came 
like  a  hundred  streams.  The  warriors  of  Caros  fled  ; 
Oscar  remained  like  a  rock  left  by  the  ebbing  sea. 
Now  dark  and  deep,  with  all  his  steeds,  Caros  rolled 
his  might  along :  the  little  streams  are  lost  in  his 
course :  the  earth  is  rocking  round.  Battle  spreads 
from  wing  to  wing ;  ten  thousand  swords  gleam  at  once 
in  the  sky.  But  why  should  Ossian  sing  of  battles  ? 
For  never  more  shall  my  steel  shine  in  war.  I  re- 
member the  days  of  my  youth  with  grief,  when  I  feel 
the  weakness  of  my  arm.  Happy  are  they  who  fell 
in  their  youth,  in  the  midst  of  their  renown !  They 
have  not  beheld  the  tombs  of  their  friends,  or  failed  to 
bend  the  bow  of  their  strength.  Happy  art  thou,  O 
Oscar,  in  the  midst  of  thy  rushing  blast !  Thou  often 
goest  to  the  fields  of  thy  fame,  where  Caros  fled  from 
thy  lifted  sword ! 

Darkness  comes  on  my  soul,  O  fair  daughter  of 
Toscar  !  I  behold  not  the  form  of  my  son  at  Carun, 
nor  the  figure  of  Oscar  on  Crona.  The  rustling  winds 
have  carried  him  far  away,  and  the  heart  of  his  father 
is  sad.  But  lead  me,  O  Malvina !  to  the  sound  of  my 
woods,  to  the  roar  of  my  mountain  streams.  Let  the 
chase  be  heard  on  Cona  :  let  me  think  on  the  days  of 
other  years.  And  bring  me  the  harp,  O  maid  !  that 


268  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

I  may  touch  it  when  the  light  of  my  soul  shall  arise. 
Be  thou  near  to  learn  the  song  ;  future  times  shall 
hear  of  me  !  The  sons  of  the  feeble  hereafter  will 
lift  the  voice  of  Cona ;  and  looking  up  to  the  rocks, 
say,  "  Here  Ossian  dwelt."  They  shall  admire  the 
chiefs  of  old,  the  race  that  are  no  more,  while  we 
ride  on  our  clouds,  Malvina !  on  the  wings  of  the 
roaring  winds.  Our  voices  shall  be  heard  at  times 
in  the  desert ;  we  shall  sing  on  the  breeze  of  the 
rock! 


CATHLIN  OF  CLUTHA. 


ARGUMENT. 

in  address  to  Malvina,  the  daughter  of  Toscar.  The  poet  relates 
the  arrival  of  Cathlin  in  Selma,  to  solicit  aid  against  Duth-carmor 
of  Cluba,  who  had  killed  Cathmol  for  the  saKe  of  his  daughter 
Lanul.  Fingal  declining;  to  make  a  choice  among  his  heroes, 
who  were  all  claiming  the  command  of  the  expedition,  they  re- 
tired "each  to  his  hill  of  ghosts,"  to  be  determined  by  dreams. 
The  spirit  of  Trenmor  appears  to  Ossian  and  Oscar.  They  sail 
from  the  bay  of  Carmona,  and  on  the  fourth  day,  appear  olf  the 
valjey  of  .Rath-col,  in  Inis-huna,  where  Duth-carmor  had  fixed  his 
residence.  Ossian  despatches  a  bard  to  Duth-carmor  to  demand 
battle.  Night  comes  on.  The  distress  of  Cathlin  of  Clutha.  Ossian 
devolves  the  command  on  Oscar,  who,  according  to  the  custom  of 
the  kings  of  Morven,  before  battle,  retired  to  a  neighboring  hill. 
Upon  the  coining  on  of  day,  the  battle  joins.  Oscar  carries  the 
mail  and  helmet  of  Duth-carmor  to  Cathlin,  who  had  retired  from 
the  field.  Cathlin  is  discovered  to  be  the  daughter  of  Cathmol  in 
disguise,  who  had  been  carried  off  by  force  by,  mid  had  made  her 
escape  from,  Duth-carmor. 

COME,  thou  beam  that  art  lonely,  from  watching  in 
the  night !  The  squalling  winds  are  around  thee,  from 
all  their  echoing  hills.  Red,  over  my  hundred  streams, 
are  the  light-covered  paths  of  the  dead.  They  rejoice 
on  the  eddying  winds,  in  the  season  of  night.  Dwells 
there  no  joy  in  song,  white-hand  of  the  harps  of  Lutha  ? 
Awake  the  voice  of  the  string;  roll  my  soul  to  me. 
It  is  a  stream  that  has  failed.  Malvina,  pour  the  song. 

1  hear  thee  from  thy  darkness  in  Selma,  thou  that 

watchest  lonely  by  night !    Why  didst  thou  withhold 

the  song  from  Ossian's  falling  soul  ?    As  the  falling 

brook  to  the  ear  of  the  hunter,  descending  from  his 

storm-covered  hill,  in  a   sunbeam  rolls  the  echoing 

stream,  he  hears  and  shakes  his  dewy  locks :  such  is 

he  voice  of  Lutha  to  the  friend  of  the  spirits  of  heroes. 

23* 


270  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

My  swelling  bosom  beats  high.  I  look  back  on  the 
days  that  are  past.  Come,  thou  beam  that  art  lonely, 
from  watching  in  the  night ! 

In  the  echoing  bay  of  Carmona  we  saw  one  day  the 
bounding  ship.  On  high  hung  a  broken  shield  ;  it  was 
marked  with  wandering  blood.  Forward  came  a  youth 
in  arms,  and  stretched  his  pointless  spear.  Long,  over 
his  tearful  eyes,  hung  loose  his  disordered  locks.  Fin- 
gal  gave  the  shell  of  kings.  The  words  of  the  stran- 
ger arose.  "  In  his  hall  lies  Cathmol  of  Clutha,  by  the 
winding  of  his  own  dark  streams.  Duih-carmor  saw 
white-bosomed  Lanul,  and  pierced  her  father's  side. 
In  the  rushy  desert  were  my  steps.  He  fled  in  the 
season  of  night.  Give  thine  aid  to  Cathlin  to  revenge 
his  father.  I  sought  thee  not  as  a  beam  in  a  land  of 
clouds.  Thou,  like  the  sun.  art  known,  king  of  echo- 
ing Selma !" 

Selma's  king  looked  around.  In  his  presence  we 
rose  in  arms.  But  who  should  lift  the  shield  ?  for  all 
had  claimed  the  war.  The  night  came  down ;  we 
strode  in  silence,  each  to  his  hill  of  ghosts,  that  spirits 
might  descend  in  our  dreams  to  mark  us  for  the  field. 
We  struck  the  shield  of  the  dead :  we  raised  the  hum 
of  songs.  We  thrice  called  the  ghosts  of  our  fathers. 
We  laid  us  down  in  dreams.  Trenmor  came,  before 
mine  eyes,  the  tall  form  of  other  years  !  His  blue 
hosts  were  behind  him  in  half-distinguished  rows.^ 
Scarce  seen  is  their  strife  in  mist,  or  the  stretching 
forward  to  deaths.  I  listened,  but  no  sound  was  there. 
The  forms  were  empty  wind  ! 

I  started  from  the  dream  of  ghosts.  On  a  sudden 
blast  flew  my  whistling  hair.  Low  sounding,  in  the 
oak,  is  the  departure  of  the  dead.  I  took  my  shield 
from  its  bough.  Onward  came  the  rattling  of  steel. 
It  was  Oscar  of  Lego.  He  had  seen  his  fathers. 
•'  As  rushes  forth  the  blast  on  the  bosom  of  whitening 


CATHLIN  OF  CLUTHA.  271 

waves,  so  careless  shall  my  course  be,  through  ocean, 
to  the  dwelling  of  foes.  I  have  seen  the  dead,  my 
father  !  My  beating  soul  is  high  !  My  fame  is  bright 
before  me,  like  the  streak  of  light  on  a  cloud,  when 
the  broad  sun  comes  forth,  red  traveller  of  the  sky !" 

"  Grandson  of  Branno,"  I  said,  "  not  Oscar  alone 
shall  meet  the  foe.  I  rush  forward,  through  ocean,  to 
the  woody  dwelling  of  heroes.  Let  us  contend,  my 
son,  like  eagles  from  one  rock,  when  they  lift  their 
broad  wings  against  the  stream  of  winds."  We  raised 
our  sails  in  Carmona.  From  three  ships  they  marked 
my  shield  on  the  wave,  as  I  looked  on  nightly  Ton- 
thena,*  red  traveller  between  the  clouds.  Four  days 
came  the  breeze  abroad.  Lumon  came  forward  in 
mist.  In  winds  were  its  hundred  groves.  Sunbeams 
marked  at  times  its  brown  side.  White  leapt  the 
foamy  streamy  from  all  its  echoing  rocks. 

A  green  field,  in  the  bosom  of  hills,  winds  silent 
with  its  own  blue  stream.  Here,  "  midst  the  waving 
of  oaks,  were  the  dwellings  of  kings  of  old."  But 
silence,  for  many  dark-brown  years,  had  settled  in 
grassy  Rath-col;  for  the  race  of. heroes  had  failed 
along  the  pleasant  vale.  Duth-carmor  was  here,  with 
his  people,  dark  rider  of  the  wave !  Ton-thena  had 
hid  her  head  in  the  sky.  He  bound  his  white-bosomed 
sails.  His  course  is  on  the  hills  of  Rath-col  to  the 
seats  of  roes.  We  came.  I  sent  the  bard,  with  songs, 
to  call  the  foe  to  fight.  Duth-carmor  heard  him  with 
\>y,  The  king's  soul  was  like  a  beam  of  fire  ;  a  beam 
of  fire,  marked  with  smoke,  rushing,  varied  through 
the  bosom  of  night.  The  deeds  of  Duth-carmor  were 
dark,  though  his  arm  was  strong. 

Night  came  with  the  gathering  of  clouds.     By  the 

*  Ton-thena,  "  fire  of  the  wave."  was  the  remarkable  star  men- 
tioned in  the  seventh  book  of  Temora,  which  directed  the  cours« 
of  Larthon  to  Ireland. 


272  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

beam  of  the  oak  we  sat  down.  At  a  distance  stood 
Cathlin  of  Clulha.  I  saw  the  changeful  soul  of  the 
stranger.  As  shadows  fly  over  the  field  of  grass,  so 
various  is  Cathlin's  cheek.  It  was  fair  within  locks, 
that  rose  on  Rath-col's  wind.  I  did  not  rush,  amidst 
his  soul,  with  my  words.  I  bade  the  song  to  rise. 

"  Oscar  of  Lego,"  1  said,  "  be  thine  the  secret  hill 
to-night.*  Strike  the  shield  like  Morven's  kings. 
With  day  thou  shalt  lead  in  war.  From  my  rock  I 
shall  see  thee,  Oscar,  a  dreadful  form  ascending  in 
fight,  like  the  appearance  of  ghosts  amidst  the  storms 
they  raise.  Why  should  mine  eyes  return  to  the  dim 
times  of  old,  ere  yet  the  song  had  bursted  forth,  like 
the  sudden  rising  of  winds  ?  But  the  years  that  are 
past  are  marked  with  mighty  deeds.  As  the  nightly 
rider  of  waves  looks  up  to  Tou-thena  of  beams,  so  let 
us  turn  our  eyes  to  Trenmor  the  father  of  kings." 

"  Wide,  in  Caracha's  echoing  field,  Carmal  had 
poured  his  tribes.  They  were  a  dark  ridge  of  waves. 
The  gray-haired  bards  were  like  moving  foam  on  their 
face.  They  kindle  the  strife  around  with  their  red- 
rolling  eyes.  Nor  alone  were  the  dwellers  of  rocks  ; 
a  son  of  Loda  was  there,  a  voice  in  his  own  dark  land, 
to  call  the  ghosts  from  high.  On  his  hill  he  had  dwelt 
in  Lochlin,  in  the  midst  of  a  leafless  grove.  Five 
stones  lifted  near  their  heads.  Loud  roared  his  rush- 
ing stream.  He  often  raised  his  voice  to  the  winds, 
when  meteors  marked  their  nightly  wings,  when  the 
dark-robed  moon  was  rolled  behind  her  hill.  Nor  un- 
heard of  ghosts  was  he  !  They  came  with  the  sound 
of  eagle-wings.  They  turned  battle,  in  fields,  before 
the  kings  of  men. 

*  This  passage  alludes  to  the  well-known  custom  among  the  an- 
cient kings  of  Scotland,  to  retire  from  their  army  on  the  night  pre 
ceding  a  battle.  The  story  which  Ossian  introduces  in  the  next 
paragraph,  concerns  the  fall  of  the  Lruids. 


CATHLIN  OF  CLUTHA.  273 

"  But  Trenmor  they  turned  not  from  battle.  He 
drew  forward  that  troubled  war :  in  its  dark  skirt  was 
Trathal,  like  a  rising  light.  It  was  dark,  and  Loda's 
son  poured  forth  his  signs  on  night.  The  feeble  were 
not  before  thee,  son  of  other  lands  !  Then  rose  the 
strife  of  kings  about  the  hill  of  night ;  but  it  was  soft 
as  two  summer  gales,  shaking  their  light  wings  on  a 
lake.  Trenmor  yielded  to  his  son,  for  the  fame  of 
the  king  had  been  heard.  Trathal  came  forth  before 
his  father,  and  the  foes  failed  in  echoing  Caracha. 
The  years  that  are  past,  my  son,  are  marked  with 
mighty  deeds." 

In  clouds  rose  the  eastern  light.  The  foe  came 
forth  in  arms.  The  strife  is  mixed  on  Rath-col,  like 
the  roar  of  streams.  Behold  the  contending  of  kings  ! 
They  meet  beside  the  oak.  In  gleams  of  steel  the 
dark  forms  are  lost ;  such  is  the  meeting  of  meteors 
in  a  vale  by  night :  red  light  is  scattered  round,  and 
men  foresee  the  storm  ! — Duth-carmor  is  low  in  blood  ! 
The  son  of  Ossian  overcame  !  Not  harmless,  in  battle, 
was  he,  Malvina,  hand  of  harps  ! 

Nor,  in  the  field,  were  the  steps  of  Cathlin.  The 
strangers  stood  by  secret  stream,  where  the  foam  of 
Rath-col  skirted  the  mossy  stones.  Above  bends  the 
branchy  birch,  and  strews  its  leaves  on  wind.  The 
inverted  spear  of  Cathlin  touched  at  times  the  stream. 
Oscar  brought  Duth-carmor's  mail :  his  helmet  with  its 
eagle- wing.  He  placed  them  before  the  stranger,  and 
his  words  were  heard.  "  The  foes  of  thy  father  have 
fallen.  They  are  laid  in  the  field  of  ghosts.  Renown 
returns  to  Morven  like  a  rising  wind.  Why  art  thou 
dark,  chief  of  Clutha  ?  Is  there  cause  for  grief?" 

"  Son  of  Ossian  of  harps,  my  soul  is  darkly  sad.  I 
behold  the  arms  of  Cathmol,  which  he  raised  in  war 
Take  the  mail  of  Cathlin,  place  it  high  in  Selma's  hall, 
that  thou  mayest  remember  the  hapless  in  thy  distant 


274  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAX. 

land."  From  white  breasts  descended  the  mail.  It 
was  the  race  of  kings :  the  soft-handed  daughter  of 
Cathmol,  at  the  streams  of  Clutha  !  Duth-carmor  saw 
her  bright  in  the  hall ;  he  had  come  by  night  to 
Clutha.  Cathmol  met  him  in  battle,  but  the  hero  fell. 
Three  days  dwelt  the  foe  with  the  maid.  On  the 
fourth  she  fled  in  arms.  She  remembered  the  race  of 
kings,  and  felt  her  bursting  soul ! 

Why,  maid  of  Toscar  of  Lutha,  should  I  tell  how 
Cathlin  failed  ?  Her  tomb  is  at  rushy  Lumon,  in  a 
distant  land.  Near  it  were  the  steps  of  Sul-malla,  in 
the  days  of  grief.  She  raised  the  song  for  the  daugh- 
ter of  strangers,  and  touched  the  mournful  harp. 

Come  from  the  watching  of  night,  Malvina,  lonely 
beam ! 


SUL-MALLA  OF  LUMON. 


ARGUMENT. 

This  poem,  which,  properly  speaking,  is  a  continuation  of  the  last, 
opens  with  an  address  to  Sul-malla,  the  daughter  of  the  king  of 
Inis-huna,  whom  Ossian  met  at  the  chase,  as  he  returned  from 
the  battle  of  Rath-col.  Sul-malla  invites  Ossian  and  Oscar  to  a 
feast,  at  the  residence  of  her  father,  who  was  then  absent  on  the 
wars.  Upon  hearing  their  names  and  family,  she  relates  an  ex- 
pedition of  Fingal  into  Inis-huna.  She  casually  mentioning  Cath- 
mpr,  chief  of  Atha,  (who  then  assisted  her  father  against  his  ene- 
mies,) Ossian  introduces  the  episode  of  Culgorm  and  Suran-dronlo, 
two  Scandinavian  kings,  in  whose  wars  Ossian  himself  and  Cath- 
mor  were  engaged  on  opposite  sides.  The  story  is  imperfect,  a 
part  of  the  original  being  lost.  Ossian,  warned  in  a  dream  by  the 
ghost  of  Trenmor,  sets  sail  from  Inis-huna. 

WHO  moves  so  stately  on  Lumon,  at  the  roar  of  the 
foamy  waters  ?  Her  hair  falls  upon  her  heaving  breast. 
White  is  her  arm  behind,  as  slow  she  bends  the  bow. 
Why  dost  thou  wander  in  deserts,  like  a  light  through 
a  cloudy  field  ?  The  young  roes  are  panting  by  their 
secret  rocks.  Return,  thou  daughter  of  kings !  the  cloudy 
night  is  n&ar  !  It  was  the  young  branch  of  green  Inis- 
huna,  Sul-malla  of  blue  eyes.  She  sent  the  bard  from 
her  rock  to  bid  us  to  her  feast.  Amidst  the  song  we 
sat  down  in  Cluba's  echoing  hall.  White  moved  the 
hands  of  Sul-malla  on  the  trembling  strings.  Half- 
heard,  amidst  the  sound,  was  the  name  of  Atha's  king : 
he  that  was  absent  in  battle  for  her  own  green  land. 
Nor  absent  from  her  soul  was  he  :  he  came  'midst  hei 
thoughts  by  night.  Ton-thena  looked  in  from  the  sky, 
and  saw  her  tossing  arms. 

The  sound  of  shells  had  ceased.  Amidst  long  locks 
Sul-malla  rose.  She  spoke  with  bended  eyes,  and 
asked  of  our  course  through  seas ;  "  for  of  the  kings 


276  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIA1C. 

of  men  are  ye,  tall  riders  of  the  wave."  "  Not  un- 
known,"  I  said,  "  at  his  streams  is  he,  the  father  of 
our  race.  Fingal  has  been  heard  of  at  Cluba,  blue* 
eyed  daughter  of  kings.  Not  only  at  Crona's  stream 
is  Ossian  and  Oscar  known.  Foes  tremble  at  our 
voice,  and  shrink  in  other  lands." 

"  Not  unmarked,"  said  the  maid,  "  by  Sul-malla,  is 
the  shield  of  Morven's  king.  It  hangs  high  in  my 
father's  hall,  in  memory  of  the  past,  when  Fingal  came 
to  Cluba,  in  the  days  of  other  years.  Loud  roared  the 
boar  of  Culdarnu,  in  the  midst  of  his  rocks  and  woods. 
Inis-huna  sent  her  youths  ;  but  they  failed,  and  virgins 
wept  over  tombs.  Careless  went  Fingal  to  Culdarnu. 
On  his  spear  rolled  the  strength  of  the  woods.  He 
was  bright,  they  said,  in  his  locks,  the  first  of  mortal 
men.  Nor  at  the  feast  were  heard  his  words.  His 
deeds  passed  from  his  soul  of  fire,  like  the  rolling  of 
vapors  from  the  face  of  the  wandering  sun.  Not  care- 
less looked  the  blue  eyes  of  Cluba  on  his  stately  steps. 
In  white  bosoms  rose  the  king  of  Selma,  in  the  midst 
of  their  thoughts  by  night.  But  the  winds  bore  the 
stranger  to  the  echoing  vales  of  his  roes.  Nor  lost  to 
other  lands  was  he,  like  a  meteor,  that  sinks  in  a 
cloud.  He  came  forth,  at  times  in  his  brightness,  to 
the  distant  dwelling  of  foes.  His  fame  came,  like  the 
sound  of  winds,  to  Cluba's  woody  vale. 

"  Darkness  dwells  in  Cluba  of  harps  !  the  race  of 
kings  is  distant  far :  in  battle  is  my  father  Conmor  ; 
and  Lormar,  my  brother,  king  of  streams.  Nor  dark- 
ening  alone  are  they  ;  a  beam  from  other  lands  is  nigh  ; 
the  friend  of  strangers*  in  Atha,  the  troubler  of  the 
field.  High  from  their  misty  hills  looks  forth  the  blue 
eyes  of  Erin,  for  he  is  far  away,  young  dweller  of  their 
souls !  Nor  harmless,  white  hands  of  Erin  !  is  Cath- 

*  Cathmor,  the  son  of  Bt  rbar-duthol. 


StTL-MALLA  OF  LUMON.  277 

mor  in  the  skirts  of  war ;  he  rolls  ten  thousand  before 
him  in  his  distant  field." 

"  Not  unseen  by  Ossian,"  I  said,  "  rushed  Cathmor 
from  his  streams,  when  he  poured  his  strength  on 
I-thorno,  isle  of  many  waves  !  In  strife  met  two  kings 
in  I-thorno,  Culgorm  and  Suran-dronlo :  each  from  his 
echoing  isle,  stern  hunters  of  the  boar  ! 

"  They  met  a  boar  at  a  foamy  stream  ;  each  pierced 
him  with  his  spear.  They  strove  for  the  fame  of  the 
deed,  and  gloomy  battle  rose.  From  isle  to  isle  they 
sent  a  spear  broken  and  stained  with  blood,  to  call  the 
friends  of  their  fathers  in  their  sounding  arms.  Cath- 
mor came  from  Erin  to  Colgorm,  red-eyed  king ;  I 
aided  Suran-dronlo  in  his  land  of  boars. 

"  We  rushed  on  either  side  of  a  stream,  which  roar- 
ed through  a  blasted  heath.  High  broken  rocks  were 
round  with  all  their  bending  trees.  Near  were  two 
circles  of  Loda,  with  the  stone  of  power,  where  spirits 
descended  by  night  in  dark-red  streams  of  fire.  There, 
mixed  with  the  murmur  of  waters,  rose  the  voice  of 
aged  men  ;  they  called  the  forms  of  night  to  aid  them 
.in  their  war. 

"  Heedless  I  stood  with  my  people,  where  fell  the 
foamy  stream  from  rocks.  The  moon  .moved  red  from 
ihe  mountain.  My  song  at  times  arose.  Dark,  on  the 
other  side,  young  Cathmor  heard  my  voice,  for  he  lay 
beneath  the  oak  in  all  his  gleaming  arms.  Morning 
came  :  we  rushed  to  the  fight ;  from  wing  to  wing  ia 
the  rolling  of  strife.  They  fell  like  the  thistle's  head 
beneath  autumnal  winds. 

"  In  armor  came  a  stately  form  :  I  mixed  my  strokes 
with  the  chief.  By  turns  our  shields  are  pierced  :  loud 
rung  our  steely  mail.  His  helmet  fell  to  the  ground. 
In  brightness  shone  the  foe.  His  eyes,  two  pleasant 
flames,  rolled  between  his  wandering  locks.  I  knew 
Cathmor  of  Atha,  and  threw  my  spear  on  earth. 
24 


278  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAM. 

Dark  we  turned,  and  silent  passed  to  mix  with  other 
foes. 

"  Not  so  passed  the  striving  kings.  They  mixed  in 
echoing  fray,  like  the  meeting  of  ghosts  in  the  dark 
wing  of  winds.  Through  either  breast  rushed  the 
spears,  nor  yet  lay  the  foes  on  earth  !  A  rock  received 
their  fall ;  half-reclined  they  lay  in  death.  Each  held 
the  lock  of  his  foe  :  each  grimly  seemed  to  roll  his 
eyes.  The  stream  of  the  rock  leapt  on  their  shields, 
and  mixed  below  with  blood. 

"  The  battle  ceased  in  I-thorno.  The  strangers  met 
in  peace  :  Cathmor  from  Atha  of  streams,  and  Ossian 
king  of  harps.  We  placed  the  dead  in  earth.  Our 
steps  were  by  Runar's  bay.  With  the  bounding  boat 
afar  advanced  a  ridgy  wave.  Dark  was  the  rider  of 
seas,  but  a  beam  of  light  was  there  like  the  ray  of  the 
sun  in  Stromlo's  rolling  smoke.  It  was  the  daughter 
of  Suran-dronlo,  wild  in  brightened  looks.  Her  eyes 
were  wandering  flames  amidst  disordered  locks.  For- 
ward is  her  white  arm  with  the  spear  ;  her  high-heav- 
ing breast  is  seen,  white  as  foamy  waves  that  rise,  by 
turns,  amidst  rocks.  They  are  beautiful,  but  terrible, 
and  mariners  call  the  winds ! 

"  '  Come,  ye  dwellers  of  Loda  !'  she  said  :  '  come, 
Carchar,  pale  in  the  midst  of  clouds  !  Sluthmor  that 
strides!  in  airy  halls  !  Corchtur,  terrible  in  winds ! 
Receive  from  his  daughter's  spear,  the  foes  of  Suran- 
dronlo.  No  shadow  at  his  roaring  streams,  no  mildly 
looking  form,  was  he  !  When  he  took  up  his  spear, 
the  hawks  shook  their  sounding  wings  :  for  blood  was 
poured  around  the  steps  of  dark-eyed  Suran-dronlo. 
He  lighted  me  no  harmless  beam  to  glitter  on  his 
streams.  Like  meteors  I  was  bright,  but  I  blasted  the 
foes  of  Suran-dronlo.'  '• 

Nor  unconcerned   heard   Sul-malla  the   praise  of 


SUL-MALLA  OF  LTJMON.  279 

Cathmor  of  shields.  He  was  within  her  soul,  like  a 
fire  in  secret  heath,  which  awakes  at  the  voice  of  the 
blast,  and  sends  its  beam  abroad.  Amidst  the  song  re- 
moved the  daughter  of  kings,  like  the  voice  of  a  sum- 
mer  breeze,  when  it  lifts  the  heads  of  flowers,  and  curls 
the  lakes  and  streams.  The  rustling  sound  gently 
spreads  o'er  the  vale,  softly-pleasing  as  it  saddens  the 
soul. 

By  night  came  a  dream  to  Ossian ;  formless  stooj 
the  shadow  of  Trenmor.  He  seemed  to  strike  the 
dim  shield  on  Selma's  streamy  rock.  I  rose  in  my 
rattling  steel :  I  knew  that  war  was  near ;  before  the 
winds  our  sails  were  spread,  when  Lumon  showed  its 
streams  to  the  morn. 

Come  from,  the  watching  night,  Malvina,  lonely 
beam ! 


THE  WAR  OF  INIS-THONA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Reflections  on  rhe  poet's  youth.  An  apostrophe  to  Selma.  Oscar 
obtains  leave  to  go  to  Inis-thona,  an  island  of  Scandinavia.  The 
mournful  story  of  Argon  and  Ruro,  the  two  sons  of  the  king  of 
Inis-thona.  Oscar  revenges  their  death,  and  returns  in  triumph 
to  Sehna.  A  soliloquy  by  the  poet  himself. 

OUR  youth  is  like  the  dream  of  the  hunter  on  the 
hill  of  heath.  He  sleeps  in  the  mild  beams  of  the  sun : 
he  awakes  amidst  a  storm ;  the  red  lightning  flies 
around  :  trees  shake  their  heads  to  the  wind  !  He  looks 
back  with  joy  on  the  day  of  the  sun,  and  the  pleasant 
dreams  of  his  rest !  When  shall  Ossian's  youth  return? 
When  his  ear  delight  in  the  sound  of  arms  ?  When 
shall  I,  like  Oscar,  travel  in  the  light  of  my  steel  ? 
Come  with  your  streams,  ye  hills  of  Cona !  listen  to 
the  voice  of  Ossian.  The  song  rises,  like  the  sun,  in 
my  soul.  I  feel  the  joys  of  other  times. 

I  behold  thy  towers,  O  Selma !  the  oaks  of  thy  shaded 
wall :  thy  streams  sound  in  my  ear  ;  thy  heroes  gather 
round.  Fingal  sits  in  the  midst.  He  leans  on  the 
shield  of  Trenmor  ;  his  spear  stands  against  the  wall ; 
he  listens  to  the  songs  of  his  bards.  The  deeds  of  his 
arm  are  heard  ;  the  actions  of  the  king  in  his  youth  ! 
Oscar  had  returned  from  the  chase,  and  heard  the  he- 
ro's praise.  He  took  the  shield  of  Branno*  from  the 
wall ;  his  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  Red  was  the 
cheek  of  youth.  His  voice  was  trembling  low.  My 
spear  shook  its  bright  head  in  his  hand:  he  spoke  to' 
Morven's  king. 

"  Fingal !  thou  king  of  heroes !  Ossian,  next  to  him 

*  The  father  of  Ererallin,  and  grandfather  to  Oscar 


THE  WAR  OF  INIS-THONA.  281 

in  war !  ye  have  fought  in  your  youth ;  your  names 
are  renowned  in  song.  Oscar  is  like  the  mist  of  Cona; 
I  appear  and  I  vanish  away.  The  bard  will  not  know 
my  name.  The  hunter  will  not  search  in  the  heath 
for  my  tomb.  Let  me  fight,  O  heroes,  in  the  battles 
of  Inis-thona.  Distant  is  the  land  of  my  war !  ye  shall 
not  hear  of  Oscar's  full :  some  bard  may  find  me  there; 
some  bard  may  give  my  name  to  song.  The  daughter 
of  the  stranger  shall  see  my  tomb,  and  weep  over  the 
youth,  that  came  from  afar.  The  bard  shall  say,  at 
the  feast,  Hear  the  song  of  Oscar  from  the  distant 
land !" 

"  Oscar,"  replied  the  king  of  Morven,  "  thou  shalt 
fight,  son  of  my  fame  !  Prepare  my  dark-bosomed  ship 
to  cany  my  hero  to  Inis-thona.  Son  of  my  son,  re- 
gard our  fame ;  thou  art  of  the  race  of  renown :  let 
not  the  children  of  strangers  say,  Feeble  are  the  sons 
of  Morven  !  Be  thou,  in  battle,  a  roaring  storm  :  mild 
as  the  evening  sun  in  peace  !  Tell,  Oscar,  to  Inis-tho- 
na's  king,  that  Fingal  remembers  his  youth  ;  when  we 
strove  in  the  combat  together,  in  the  days  of  Agan- 
decca." 

They  lifted  up  the  sounding  sail :  the  wind  whistled 
through  the  thongs*  of  their  masts.  Waves  lashed  the 
oozy  rocks  :  the  strength  of  ocean  roars.  My  son  be- 
held, from  the  wave,  the  land  of  groves.  He  rushed 
into  Runa's  sounding  bay,  and  sent  his  sword  to  Annir 
of  spears.  The  gray-headed  hero  rose,  when  he  saw 
the  sword  of  Fingal.  His  eyes  were  full  of  tears;  he 
remembered  his  battles  in  youth.  Twice  had  they 
lifted  the  spear  before  the  lovely  Agandecca :  heroes 
stood  far  distant,  as  if  two  spirits  were  striving  in  winds. 

"  But  now,"  began  the  king,  "  I  am  old  ;  the  sword 
lies  useless  in  my  hall.  Thou  who  art  of  Morveu's 

*  Leathel  thongs  were  used  among  the  Celtic  nations,  instead 
of  ropes. 

24* 


282  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

race !  Annir  has  seen  the  battle  of  spears ;  but  now 
he  is  pale  and  withered,  like  the  oak  of  Lano.  I  have 
no  son  to  meet  thee  with  joy,  to  bring  thee  to  the  halls 
of  his  fathers.  Argon  is  pale  in  the  tomb,  and  Ruro  is 
no  more.  My  daughter  is  in  the  hall  of  strangers : 
she  longs  to  behold  my  tomb.  Her  spouse  shakes  ten 
thousand  spears ;  he  comes  a  cloud  of  death  from 
Lanb.  Come,  to  share  the  feast  of  Annir,  son  of 
echoing  Morven  ? 

Three  days  they  feasted  together ;  on  the  fourth, 
Annir  heard  the  name  of  Oscar.  They  rejoiced  in  the 
shell.*  They  pursued  the  boars  of  Runa.  Beside 
the  fount  of  mossy  stones  the  weary  heroes  rest.  The 
tear  steals  in  secret  from  Annir :  he  broke  the  rising 
sigh.  "  Here  darkly  rest,"  the  hero  said,  "  the  chil- 
dren of  my  youth.  This  stone  is  the  tomb  of  Ruro  ; 
that  tree  sounds  over  the  grave  of  Argon.  Do  ye  hear 
my  voice,  O  my  sons,  within  your  narrow  house  ?  Or 
do  ye  speak  in  these  rustling  leaves,  when  the  wind  of 
the  desert  rises  ?" 

"King  of  Inis-thona,"  said  Oscar,  "how  fell  the 
children  of  youth  ?  The  wild  boar  rushes  over  their 
tombs,  but  he  does  not  disturb  their  repose.  They  pur- 
sue  deer  formed  of  clouds,  and  bend  their  airy  bow. 
They  still  love  the  sport  of  their  youth  ;  and  mount  the 
wind  with  joy." 

"  Cormalo,"  replied  the  king,  "  is  a  chief  of  ten 
thousand  spears.  He  dwells  at  the  waters  of  Lano,f 
which  sends  forth  the  vapor  of  death.  He  came  to 
Runa's  echoing  halls,  and  sought  the  honor  of  the 
spear. ^  The  youth  was  lovely  as  the  first  beam  of 

*  To  "  rejoice  in  the  shell,"  is  a  phrase  for  feasting  sumptuously 
and  drinking  freely. 

f  Lano  was  a  lake  of  Scandinavia,  remarkable  in  the  days  of 
Ossian  for  emitting  a  pestilential  vapor  in  autumn. 

$  By  "the  honor  9!  the  spear,"  is  meant  the  tournament  prac- 
tised among  the  ancient  northern  nations. 


THE  WAR  OF  INIS-THONA.  283 

the  sun  ;  few  were  they  who  could  meet  him  in  fight ! 
My  heroes  yielded  to  Cormalo  ;  my  daughter  was 
seized  in  his  love.  Argon  and  Ruro  returned  from  the 
chase  ;  the  tears  of  their  pride  descend  :  they  roll  their 
silent  eyes  on  Runa's  heroes,  who  had  yielded  to  a 
stranger.  Three  days  they  feasted  with  Cormalo ;  on 
the  fourth  young  Argon  fought.  But  who  could  fight 
with  Argon  ?  Cormalo  is  overcome.  His  heart  swelled 
with  the  grief  of  pride  ;  he  resolved  in  secret  to  behold 
the  death  of  my  sons.  They  went  to  the  hills  of  Runa; 
they  pursued  the  dark-brown  hinds.  The  arrow  of 
Cormalo  flew  in  secret ;  my  children  fell  in  blood. 
He  came  to  the  maid  of  his  love ;  to  Inis-thona's  long- 
haired maid.  They  fled  over  the  desert.  Armir  re- 
mained alone.  Night  came  on,  and  day  appeared  j 
nor  Argon's  voice  nor  Ruro's  came.  At  length  their 
much-loved  dog  was  seen ;  the  fleet  and  bounding 
Runa.  He  came  into  the  hall  and  howled ;  and  seemed 
to  look  towards  the  place  of  their  fall.  We  followed 
him  ;  we  found  them  here  :  we  laid  them  by  this  mossy 
stream.  This  is  the  haunt  of  Annir,  when  the  chase 
of  the  hinds  is  past.  I  bend  like  the  trunk  of  an  aged 
oak  ;  my  tears  for  ever  flow  !" 

"  O  Ronnan !"  said  the  rising  Oscar,  "  Ogar,  king 
of  spears !  call  my  heroes  to  my  side,  the  sons  of 
streamy  Morven.  To-day  we  go  to  Lano's  water, 
that  sends  forth  the  vapor  of  death.  Cormalo  will  not 
long  rejoice  :  death  is  often  at  the  point  of  our  swords !" 

They  came  over  the  desert  like  stormy  clouds,  when 
the  winds  roll  them  along  the  heath ;  their  edges  are 
tinged  with  lightning  ;  the  echoing  groves  foresee  the 
storm !  The  horn  of  Oscar's  battle  is  heard ;  Lano 
shook  over  all  its  waves.  The  children  of  the  lake 
convened  around  the  sounding  shield  of  Cormalo.  Oscar 
fought  as  he  was  wont  in  war.  Cormalo  fell  beneath 
his  sword :  the  sons  of  dismal  Lano  fled  to  their  se- 


284  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

cret  vales !  Oscar  brought  the  daughter  of  Inis-thona 
to  Annir's  echoing  halls.  The  face  of  age  is  bright 
with  joy  ;  he  blest  the  king  of  swords. 

How  great  was  the  joy  of  Ossian,  when  he  beheld 
the  distant  sail  of  his  son !  it  was  like  a  cloud  of  light 
that  rises  in  the  east,  when  the  traveller  is  sad  in  & 
land  unknown  :  and  dismal  night  with  her  ghosts,  is 
sitting  around  in  shades !  We  brought  him  with  songs 
to  Selma's  halls.  Fingal  spread  the  feast  of  shells. 
A  thousand  bards  raised  the  name  of  Oscar  :  Morven 
answered  to  the  sound.  The  daughter  of  Toscar  was 
there ;  her  voice  was  like  the  harp,  when  the  distant 
sound  comes,  in  the  evening,  on  the  soft  rustling  breeze 
of  the  vale  ! 

O  lay  me,  ye  that  see  the  light,  near  some  rock  of 
my  hills !  let  the  thick  hazels  be  around,  let  the  rus- 
tling oak  be  near.  Green  be  the  place  of  my  rest ; 
let  the  sound  of  the  distant  torrent  be  heard.  Daughter 
of  Toscar,  take  the  harp,  and  raise  the  lovely  song  of 
Selma  ;  that  sleep  may  overtake  my  soul  in  the  midst 
of  joy ;  that  the  dreams  of  my  youth  may  return,  and 
the  days  of  the  mighty  Fingal.  Selma !  I  behold  thy 
towers,  thy  trees,  thy  shaded  wall !  I  see  the  heroes 
of  Morven  ;  I  hear  the  song  of  bards  :  Oscar  lifts  the 
sword  of  Cormalo  ;  a  thousand  youths  admire  its  stud- 
ded thongs.  They  look  with  wonder  on  my  son :  they 
admire  the  strength  of  his  arm.  They  mark  the  joy 
of  his  father's  eyes ;  they  long  for  an  equal  fame,  and 
ye  shall  have  your  fame,  O  sons  of  streamy  Morven ! 
My  soul  is  often  brightened  with  song ;  I  remembei 
the  friends  of  my  youth.  But  sleep  descends  in  the 
sound  of  the  harp  !  pleasant  dreams  begin  to  rise  !  Ya 
sons  of  the  chase,  stand  far  distant  nor  disturb  my  rest 
The  bard  of  other  times  holds  discourse  with  his  fa 
thers  !  the  chiefs  of  the  days  of  old  !  Sons  of  the  chase, 
stand  far  distant !  disturb  not  the  dreams  of  Ossian ! 


THE  SONGS  OF  SELMA. 

ARGUMENT. 

Address  to  the  evening  star.  Apostrophe  to  Fingal  and  his  times. 
Minona  sings  before  the  king  the  song  of  the  unfortunate  Colma, 
and  the  bards  exhibit  other  specimens  of  their  poetical  talents : 
according  to  an  annual  custom  established  by  the  monarchs  of 
the  ancient  Caledonians. 

STAR  of  descending  night !  fair  is  thy  light  in  the 
west !  thou  that  liftest  thy  unshorn  head  from  thy  cloud : 
thy  steps  are  stately  on  thy  hill.  What  dost  thou  be- 
hold in  the  plain  ?  The  stormy  winds  are  laid.  The 
murmur  of  the  torrent  comes  from  afar.  Roaring 
waves  climb  the  distant  rock.  The  flies  of  evening 
are  on  their  feeble  wings :  the  hum  of  their  course  is 
MI  the  field.  What  dost  thou  behold,  fair  light  ?  But 
thou  dost  smile  and  depart.  The  waves  come  with 
joy  around  thee :  they  bathe  thy  lovely  hair.  Fare- 
well,  thou  silent  beam  !  Let  the  light  of  Ossian's  soul 
arise ! 

And  it  does  arise  in  its  strength !  I  behold  my  de- 
parted friends.  Their  gathering  is  on  Lora,  as  in  the 
days  of  other  years.  Fingal  comes  like  a  watery  col- 
umn of  mist !  his  heroes  are  around :  and  see  the  bards 
of  song,  gray -haired  Ullin !  Stately  Ryno !  Alpin 
with  the  tuneful  voice !  the  soft  complaint  of  Minona ! 
How  are  ye  changed,  my  friends,  since  the  days  of 
Selma's  feast !  when  we  contended,  like  gales  of  spring, 
as  they  fly  along  the  hill,  and  bend  by  turns  the  feebly- 
whistling  grass. 

Minona  came  forth  in  her  beauty :  with  downcast 
look  and  tearful  eye.  Her  hair  flew  slowly  on  the 
blast,  that  rushed  unfrequert  from  the  hill.  The  souls 


286  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSJAN. 

of  the  heroes  were  sad  when  she  raised  the  tunefhl 
voice.  Often  had  they  seen  the  grave  of  Salgar,  the 
dark  dwelling  of  white-bosomed  Colma.  Colma  left 
alone  on  the  hill,  with  all  her  voice  of  song !  Salgar 
promised  to  come :  but  the  night  descended  around. 
Hear  the  voice  of  Colma,  when  she  sat  alone  on  the 
hill. 

Colma.  It  is  night,  I  am  alone,  forlorn  on  the  hill 
of  storms.  The  wind  is  heard  on  the  mountain.  The 
torrent  pours  down  the  rock.  No  hut  receives  me 
from  the  rain  ;  forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds  ! 

Rise,  moon !  from  behind  thy  clouds.  Stars  of  the 
night,  arise !  Lead  me,  some  light,  to  the  place  where 
my  love  rests  from  the  chase  alone  !  his  bow  near  him, 
unstrung :  his  dogs  panting  around  him.  But  here  I 
must  sit  alone,  by  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The 
stream  and  the  wind  roar  aloud.  I  hear  not  the  voice 
of  my  love !  Why  delays  my  Salgar,  why  the  chief 
of  the  hill,  his  promise  ?  Here  is  the  rock,  and  here 
the  tree !  here  is  the  roaring  stream !  Thou  didst 
promise  with  night  to  be  here.  Ah !  whither  is  my 
Salgar  gone  ?  With  thee,  I  would  fly  from  my  father ; 
with  thee,  from  my  brother  of  pride.  Our  race  have 
long  been  foes  ;  we  are  not  foes,  O  Salgar  ! 

Cease  a  little  while,  O  wind !  stream,  be  thou  silent 
awhile  !  let  my  voice  be  heard  around.  Let  my  wan- 
derer hear  me  !  Salgar !  it  is  Colma  who  calls.  Here 
is  the  tree,  and  the  rock.  Salgar,  my  love  !  I  am  here. 
Why  delayest  thou  thy  coming  ?  Lo  !  the  calm  moon 
comes  forth.  The  flood  is  bright  in  the  vale.  The 
rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep,  I  see  him  not  on  the  brow. 
His  dogs  come  not  before  him,  with  tidings  of  his  near 
approach.  Here  I  must  sit  alone  ! 

Who  lie  on  the  heath  beside  me  ?  Are  they  my  love 
and  my  brother  ?  Speak  to  me,  O  my  friends !  To 
Colma  they  give  no  reply.  Speak  to  me;  I  am  alone' 


THE  SONGS  OF  SELMA.  287 

My  soul  is  tormented  with  fears !  Ah !  they  are  dead ! 
Their  swords  are  red  from  the  fight.  O  my  brother ! 
my  brother !  why  hast  thou  slain  my  Salgar  ?  why,  O 
Salgar !  hast  thou  slain  my  brother  ?  Dear  were  ye 
both  to  me !  what  shall  I  say  in  your  praise  ?  Thou 
wert  fair  on  the  hill  among  thousands  !  he  was  terrible 
in  fight.  Speak  to  me  ;  hear  my  voice  ;  hear  me,  sons 
of  my  love  !  They  are  silent ;  silent  for  ever  !  Cold, 
cold,  are  their  breasts  of  clay  !  Oh !  from  the  rock  on 
the  hill,  from  the  top  of  the  windy  steep,  speak,  ye 
ghosts  of  the  dead  !  speak,  I  will  not  be  afraid !  Whither 
are  ye  gone  to  rest  ?  In  what  cave  of  the  hill  shall  I 
find  the  departed  ?  No  feeble  voice  is  on  the  gale :  no 
answer  half-drowned  in  the  storm ! 

I  sit  in  my  grief;  I  wait  for  morning  in  my  tears ! 
Rear  the  tomb,  ye  friends  of  the  dead.  Close  it  not 
till  Colma  come.  My  life  flies  away  like  a  dream: 
why  should  I  stay  behind  ?  Here  shall  I  rest  with  my 
friends,  by  the  stream  of  the  sounding  rock.  When 
night  comes  on  the  hill ;  when  the  loud  winds  arise ; 
my  ghost  shall  stand  in  the  blast,  and  mourn  the  death 
of  my  friends.  The  hunter  shall  hear  from  his  booth. 
He  shall  fear  but  love  my  voice !  For  sweet  shall  my 
voice  be  for  my  friends :  pleasant  were  her  friends  to 
Colma ! 

Such  was  thy  song,  Minona,  softly-blushing  daughter 
of  Torman.  Our  tears  descended  for  Colma,  and  our 
souls  were  sad !  Ullin  came  with  his  harp !  he  gave  the 
song  of  Alpin.  The  voice  of  Alpin  was  pleasant :  the 
soul  of  Ryno  was  a  beam  of  fire !  But  they  had  rested 
in  the  narrow  house :  their  voice  had  ceased  in  Selma. 
Ullin  had  returned,  one  day,  from  the  chase,  before  the 
heroes  fell.  He  heard  their  strife  on  the  hill ;  their 
song  was  soft  but  sad  !  They  mourned  the  fall  of  Mo- 
rar,  first  of  mortal  men !  His  soul  was  like  the  soul 
of  Fingal :  his  sword  like  the  sword  of  Oscar.  But  ho 


288  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

fell,  and  his  father  mourned :  his  sister's  eyes  were  full 
of  tears.  Minona's  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  the  sister  of 
car-borne  Morar.  She  retired  from  the  song  of  Ullin, 
like  the  moon  hi  the  west,  when  she  foresees  the  shower, 
and  hides  her  fair  head  in  a  cloud.  I  touched  the  harp 
with  Ullrn ;  the  song  of  mourning  rose  ! 

Ryno.  The  wind  and  the  rain  are  past ;  calm  is  the 
noon  of  day.  The  clouds  are  divided  in  heaven.  Over 
the  green  hills  flies  the  inconstant  sun.  Red  through 
the  stony  vale  comes  down  the  stream  of  the  hill. 
Sweet  are  thy  murmurs,  O  stream  !  but  more  sweet  is 
the  voice  I  hear.  It  is  the  voice  of  Alpin,  the  son  of 
song,  mourning  for  the  dead  !  Bent  is  his  head  of  age ; 
red  his  tearful  eye.  Alpin,  thou  son  of  song,  why  alone 
on  the  silent  hill  ?  why  complainest  thou,  as  a  blast  in 
the  wood ;  as  a  wave  on  the  lonely  shore  ? 

Alpin,  My  tears,  O  Ryno  !  are  for  the  dead ;  my 
voice  for  those  that  have  passed  away.  Tall  thou  art 
on  the  hill ;  fair  among  the  sons  of  the  vale.  But  thou 
shalt  fall  like  Morar ;  the  mourner  shall  sit  on  thy 
tomb.  The  hills  shall  know  thee  no  more ;  thy  bow 
shall  lie  in  thy  hall  unstrung. 

Thou  wert  swift,  O  Morar !  as  a  roe  on  the  desert  j 
terrible  as  a  meteor  of  fire.  Thy  wrath  was  as  the 
storm.  Thy  sword  in  battle,  as  lightning  in  the  field. 
Thy  voice  was  a  stream  after  rain ;  like  thunder  on 
distant  hills.  Many  fell  by  thy  arm ;  they  were  con- 
sumed  in  the  flames  of  thy  wrath.  But  when  thou  didst 
return  from  war,  how  peaceful  was  thy  brow !  Thy 
face  was  like  the  sun  after  rain ;  like  the  moon  in  the 
silence  of  night ;  calm  as  the  breast  of  the  lake  when 
the  loud  wind  is  laid. 

Narrow  is  thy  dwelling  now !  Dark  the  place  of 
thine  abode  !  With  three  steps  I  compass  thy  grave. 
O  thou  who  wast  so  great  before !  Four  stones,  with 
their  "'isads  of  moss,  are  the  only  memorial  of  thee.  A 


THE  SONGS  OP  SELMA. 

tree  with  scarce  a  leaf,  long  grass,  which  whistles  in 
the  wind,  mark  to  the  hunter's  eye  the  grave  of  the 
mighty  Morar.  Morar !  thou  art  low  indeed.  Thou 
nast  no  mother  to  mourn  thee  ;  no  maid  with  her  tears 
of  love.  Dead  is  she  that  brought  thee  forth.  Fallen 
is  the  daughter  of  Morglan, 

Who  on  his  staff  is  this  1  who  is  this  whose  head  is 
white  with  age  ;  whose  eyes  are  red  with  tears  ?  who 
quakes  at  every  step  ?  It  is  thy  father,  O  Morar !  the 
father  of  no  son  but  thee.  He  heard  of  thy  fame  in 
war ;  he  heard  of  foes  dispersed.  He  heard  of  Morar's 
renown  ;  why  did  he  not  hear  of  his  wound  ?  Weep, 
thou  father  of  Morar !  weep  ;  but  thy  son  heareth  thee 
not.  Deep  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead ;  low  their  pillow 
of  dust.  No  more  shall  he  hear  thy  voice ;  no  more 
awake  at  thy  call.  When  shall  it  be  morn  in  the  grave, 
to  bid  the  slumberer  awake  ?  Farewell,  thou  bravest 
of  men !  thou  conqueror  in  the  field  !  but  the  field  shall 
«ee  thee  no  more  ;  nor  the  dark  wood  be  lightened  with 
the  splendor  of  thy  steel.  Thou  hast  left  no  son. 
The  song  shall  preserve  thy  name.  Future  times  shall 
hear  of  thee ;  they  shall  hear  of  the  fallen  Morar. 

The  grief  of  all  arose,  but  most  the  bursting  sigh  of 
Armin,  He  remembers  the  death  of  his  son,  who  fell 
in  the  days  of  his  youth.  Carmor  was  near  the  hero, 
the  chief  of  the  echoing  Galmal.  Why  burst  the  sigh 
of  Armin  ?  he  said.  Is  there  a  cause  to  mourn  ?  The 
song  comes,  with  its  music,  to  melt  and  please  the  soul. 
It  is  like  soft  mist,  that,  rising  from  a  lake,  pours  on 
the  silent  vale ;  the  green  flowers  are  filled  with  dew, 
but  the  sun  returns  in  his  strength,  and  the  mist  is  gone. 
Why  art  thou  sad,  O  Armin,  chief  of  sea-surrounded 
Gorma  ? 

Sad  I  am !  nor  small  is  my  cause  of  wo.  Carmor, 
thou  hast  lost  no  son ;  thou  hast  lost  no  daughter  of 
beauty.  Colgar  the  valiant  lives  j  and  Annira,  fairest 
•25 


290  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

maid.  The  boughs  of  thy  house  ascend,  O  Carmor! 
but  Armin  is  the  last  of  his  race.  Dark  is  thy  bed,  O 
Daura !  deep  thy  sleep  hi  the  tomb !  When  shall 
thou  awake  with  thy  songs  ?  with  all  thy  voice  of 
music? 

Arise,  winds  of  autumn,  arise ;  blow  along  the  heath ! 
streams  of  the  mountains,  roar !  roar,  tempests,  in  the 
groves  of  my  oaks !  walk  through  broken  clouds,  O 
moon !  show  thy  pale  face,  at  intervals !  bring  to  my 
mind  the  night,  when  all  my  children  fell ;  when  Arin- 
dal  the  mighty  fell !  when  Daura  the  lovely  failed ! 
Daura,  my  daughter !  thou  wert  fair ;  fair  as  the  moon 
on  Fura ,  white  as  the  driven  snow  ;  sweet  as  the 
breathing  gale.  Arindal,  thy  bow  was  strong.  Thy 
spear  was  swift  on  the  field.  Thy  look  was  like  mist 
on  the  wave :  thy  shield,  a  red  cloud  in  a  storm.  Ar- 
mar,  renowned  in  war,  came,  and  sought  Daura's  love. 
He  was  not  long  refused :  fair  was  the  hope  of  their 
friends ! 

Erath,  son  of  Odgal,  repined :  his  brother  had  been 
slain  by  Armar.  He  came  disguised  like  a  son  of  the 
sea :  fair  was  his  skiff  on  the  wave ;  white  his  locks 
of  age  ;  calm  his  serious  brow.  Fairest  of  women,  he 
said,  lovely  daughter  of  Armin !  a  rock  not  distant  in 
the  sea  bears  a  tree  on  its  side :  red  shines  the  fruit 
afar !  There  Armar  waits  for  Daura.  I  come  to  carry 
his  love  !  She  went ;  she  called  on  Armar.  Nought 
answered,  but  the  son  of  the  rock.*  Armar,  my  love' 
my  Iov3 !  why  tormentest  thou  me  with  fear !  hear,  son 
of  Arnart,  hear :  it  is  Daura  who  calleth  thee  !  Erath 
the  traitor  fled  laughing  to  the  land.  She  lifted  up  her 
voice ;  she  called  for  her  brother  and  for  her  father. 
Arindal !  Armin !  none  to  relieve  your  Daura ! 


*  By  ;'the  son  of  the  rock,"  the  poet  means  '.he  echoing  back 
of  the  human  voice  from  a  rock. 


THE  SONGS  OF  SELMA.  291 

Her  voice  came  over  the  sea.  Arindal  my  son  de- 
scended from  the  hill ;  rough  in  the  spoils  of  the  chase. 
His  arrows  rattled  by  his  side ;  his  bow  was  in  his 
hand ;  five  dark-gray  dogs  attended  his  steps.  He  saw 
fierce  Erath  on  the  shore :  he  seized  and  bound  him  to 
an  oak.  Thick  wind  the  thongs  of  the  hide  around  his 
limbs :  he  loads  the  winds  with  his  groans.  Arindal 
ascends  the  deep  in  his  boat,  to  bring  Daura  to  land. 
Armar  came  in  his  wrath,  and  let  fly  the  gray-feather- 
ed shaft.  It  sunk,  it  sunk  in  thy  heart,  O  Arindal,  my 
son !  for  Erath  the  traitor  thou  diest.  The  oar  is 
stopped  at  once ;  he  panted  on  the  rock  and  expired. 
What  is  thy  grief,  O  Daura,  when  round  thy  feet  is 
poured  thy  brother's  blood !  The  boat  is  broke  in 
twain.  Armar  plunges  into  the  sea,  to  rescue  his 
Daura,  or  die.  Sudden  a  blast  from  a  hill  came  over 
the  waves.  He  sunk,  and  he  rose  no  more. 

Alone  on  the  sea-beat  rock,  my  daughter  was  heard 
to  complain.  Frequent  and  loud  were  her  cries.  What 
could  her  father  do  ?  All  night  I  stood  on  the  shore. 
I  saw  her  by  the  faint  beam  of  the  moon.  All  night  I 
heard  her  cries.  Loud  was  the  wind ;  the  rain  beat 
hard  on  the  hill.  Before  morning  appeared  her  voice 
was  weak.  It  died  away,  like  the  evening  breeze 
among  the  grass  of  the  rocks.  Spent  with  grief,  she 
expired ;  and  left  thee,  Armin,  alone.  Gone  is  my 
strength  in  war !  fallen  my  pride  among  women ! 
When  the  storms  aloft  arise  ;  when  the  north  lifts  the 
wave  on  high !  I  sit  by  the  sounding  shore,  and  look 
on  the  fatal  rock.  Often  by  the  setting  moon,  I  see 
the  ghosts  of  my  children.  Half  viewless,  they  walk  in 
mournful  conference  together.  Will  none  of  you  speak 
in  pity.  They  do  not  regard  their  father.  I  am  sad, 
O  Carmor,  nor  small  is  my  cause  of  wo. 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards  in  the  days  of 
gang ;  when  the  king  heard  the  music  of  harps,  the 


292  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIt. 

tales  of  other  times!  The  chiefs  gathered  from  alt 
their  hills,  and  heard  the  lovely  sound.  They  \  raised 
the  voice  of  Cona  ;*  the  first  among  a  thousand  bards ! 
but  age  is  now  on  my  tongue ;  my  soul  has  failed :  _ 
hear,  at  times,  the  ghosts  of  bards,  and  learn  their 
pleasant  song.  But  memory  fails  on  my  mind.  I  hear 
the  call  of  years ;  they  say,  as  they  pass  along,  Why 
does  Ossian  sing  ?  Soon  shall  he  lie  in  the  narrow 
house,  and  no  bard  shall  raise  his  fame  !  Roll  on,  ye 
dark-brown  years ;  ye  bring  no  joy  on  your  course ! 
Let  the  tomb  open  to  Ossian,  for  his  strength  has  failed. 
The  sons  of  song  are  gone  to  rest.  My  voice  remains, 
like  a  blast,  that  roars,  lonely,  on  a  sea-surrounded 
rock,  after  the  winds  are  laid.  The  dark  moss  whistXx 
there ;  the  distant  mariner  sees  the  waving  trees ! 

•  Oecian  is  sometimes  poetically  called  "  the  voice  of  C  -*a  ' 


FlNGAL : 

AN    ANCIENT    EPIC    POEM. 
BOOK   I. 

ARGUMENT. 
I 

Cuthtillin  (general  of  the  Irish  tribes,  in  the  minority  oi  Cormae, 
king  of  Ireland)  sitting  alone  beneath  a  tree,  at  the  gate  of  Tura, 
a  castle  of  Ulster  (the  other  chiefs  having  gone  on  a  hunting 
party  to  Cromla,  a  neighboring  hill,)  is  informed  of  the  landing  of 
Swaran,  king  of  Lochlin,  by  Moran,  the  son  of  Fithil,  one  ofliia 
scouts.  He  convenes  the  chiefs ;  a  council  is  held,  and  disputes 
run  high  about  giving  battle  to  the  enemy.  Connel,  the  petty 
king  of  Toeorma,  and  an  intimate  friend  of  Cuthullin,  was  for 
retreating,  till  Fingal,  king  of  those  Caledonians  who  inhabited 
the  northwest  coast  of  Scotland,  whose  aid  had  been  previously 
solicited,  should  arrive  ;  but  Calmar,  the  son  of  Mama,  lord_  of 
Lara,  a  country  in  Connaught,  was  for  engaging  the  enemy  im- 
mediately. Cuthullin,  of  himself  willing  to  fight,  went  into  the 
opinion  of  Calmar.  Marching  towards  the  enemy,  he  missed 
three  of  his  bravest  heroes,  Fergus,  Duchomar,  and  Cathba. 
Fergus  arriving,  tells  Cuthullin  of  the  death  of  the  two  other 
chiefs:  which  introduces  the  affecting  episode  of  Morna,  the 
daughter  of  Cormac.  The  army  of  Cuthullin  is  descried  at  a 
distance  by  Swaran,  who  sent  me  son  of  Arno  to  observe  the 
motions  of  the  enemy,  while  he  himself  ranged  his  forces  in 
order  of  battle.  The  son  of  Arno  returning  to  Swaran,  describes 
to  him  Cuthullin's  chariot,  and  the  terrible  appearance  of  that 
hero.  The  armies  engage,  but  night  coming  on,  leaves  the  vic- 
tory undecided.  Cuthullin,  according  to  the  hospitality  of  the 
times,  sends  to  Swaran  a  formal  invitation  to  a  feast,  by  nis  bard 
Carril,  the  son  of  Kinfena.  Swaran  refuses  to  come.  Carril  re- 
lates to  Cuthullin  t*ie  story  of  Grudar  and  Braseolis.  A  party,  by 
Connal's  advice,  is  pent  to  observe  the  enemy ;  which  closes  the 
action  of  the  first  day. 

CUTHTTLLIN  sat  by  Tura's  wall ;  by  the  tree  of  the 

rustling  sound.     His  spear  leaned  against  the  rock. 

His  shield  lay  on  the  grass  by  his  side.     Amid  his 

thoughts  of  mighty  Cairbar,  a  hero  slain  by  the  chief 

25* 


294  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIA!f. 

in  war  ;  the  scout  of  ocean  comes,  Moran  the  son  of 
Fithil! 

"  Arise,"  said  the  youth,  "  Cuthullin,  arise.  I  see 
the  ships  of  the  north  !  Many,  chief  of  men,  are  the 
foe.  Many  the  heroes  of  the  sea-borne  Swaran  !"— 
"  Moran  !"  replied  the  blue-eyed  chief,  "  thou  ever 
tremblest,  son  of  Fithil !  Thy  fears  have  increased 
the  foe.  It  is  Fingal,  king  of  deserts,  with  aid  to  green 
Erin  of  streams." — "  1  beheld  their  chief,"  says  Moran, 
"  tall  as  a  glittering  rock.  His  spear  is  a  blasted  pine. 
His  shield  the  rising  moon  !  He  sat  on  the  shore ! 
like  a  cloud  of  mist  on  the  silent  hill !  Man/,  chief 
of  heroes  !  I  said,  many  are  our  hands  of  war.  Well 
art  thou  named,  the  mighty  man  ;  but  many  mighty 
men  are  seen  from  Tura's  windy  walls. 

"  He  spoke,  like  a  wave  on  a  rock,  '  Who  hi  this 
land  appears  like  me  ?  Heroes  stand  not  in  my  pre- 
sence :  they  fall  to  earth  from  my  hand.  Who  can 
meet  Swaran  in  fight  ?  Who  but  Fingal,  king  of  Sel- 
ma  of  storms  ?  Once  we  wrestled  on  Malmor  ;  our 
heels  overturned  the  woods.  Rocks  fell  from  their 
place  ;  rivulets,  changing  their  course,  fled  murmuring 
from  our  side.  Three  days  we  renewed  the  strife  ; 
heroes  stood  at  a  distance  and  trembled.  On  the 
fourth,  Fingal  says,  that  the  king  of  the  ocean  fell ! 
but  Swaran  says  he  stood  !  Let  dark  Cuthullin  yield 
to  him,  that  is  strong  as  the  storms  of  his  land  !'  " 

"  No !"  replied  the  blue-eyed  chief,  "  I  never  yield 
to  mortal  man '  Dark  Cuthullin  shall  be  great  or 
dead  !  Go,  son  of  Fithil,  take  my  spear.  Strike  the 
sounding  shield  of  Semo.  It  hangs  at  Tcira's  rustling 
gate.  The  sound  of  peace  is  not  its  voice  !  My  heroes 
shall  hear  and  obey."  He  went.  He  struck  the 
bossy  shield.  The  hills,  the  rocks  reply.  The  sound 
spreads  along  the  wood :  deer  start  by  the  lake  of  roes. 
Curach  leaps  from  the  sounding  rock  !  and  Connal  of 
i 


FINGAL.  295 

the  bloody  spear  !  Crugal's  breast  of  snow  beats  high. 
The  son  of  Favi  leaves  the  dark-brown  hind.  It  is  the 
shield  of  war,  said  Ronnart ;  the  spear  of  Cuthullin, 
said  Lugar  !  Son  of  the  sea,  put  on  thy  arms  !  Cal- 
mar,  lift  thy  sounding  steel !  Puno !  dreadful  hero, 
arise  !  Cairbar,  from  thy  red  tree  of  Cromla  !  Bend 
thy  knee,  O  Eth  !  descend  from  the  streams  of  Lena. 
Caolt,  stretch  thy  side  as  thou  movest  along  the  whist- 
ling heath  of  Mora  :  thy  side  that  is  white  as  the  foam 
«f  the  troubled  sea,  when  the  dark  winds  pour  it  oil 
rocky  Cuthon. 

Now  I  behold  the  chiefs,  in  the  pride  of  their  former 
-deeds  !  Their  souls  are  kindled  at  the  battles  of  old  ; 
at  the  actions  of  other  times.  Their  eyes  are  flames 
of  fire.  They  roll  in  search  of  the  foes  of  the  land. 
Their  mighty  hands  are  on  their  swords.  Lightning 
pours  from  their  sides  of  steel.  They  come  like 
streams  from  the  mountains  ;  each  rushes  roaring  from 
the  hill.  Bright  are  the  chiefs  of  battle,  in  the  armor 
of  their  fathers.  Gloomy  and  dark,  their  heroes  follow 
like  the  gathering  of  the  rainy  clouds  behind  the  red 
meteors  of  heaven.  The  sounds  of  crashing  arms 
ascend.  The  gray  dogs  howl  between.  Unequal 
bursts  the  song  of  battle.  Rocking  Cromla  echoes 
round.  On  Lena's  dusky  heath  they  stand,  like  mist 
that  shades  the  hills  of  autumn  ;  when  broken  and  dark 
it  settles  high,  and  lifts  its  head  to  heaven. 

"  Hail,"  said  Cuthullin,  "  sons  of  the  narrow  vales  ! 
hail,  hunters  of  the  deer  !  Another  sport  is  drawing 
near :  it  is  like  the  dark  rolling  of  that  wave  on  the 
coast !  Or  shall  we  fight,  ye  sons  of  war !  or  yield 
green  Erin  to  Lochlin  ?  O  Connal !  speak,  thou  first 
of  men  !  thou  breaker  of  the  shields  !  thou  hast  often 
fought  with  Lochlin  :  wilt  thou  lift  thy  father's  spear  ?" 

"  Cuthullin  !"  calm  the  chief  replied,  "  the  spear  of 
Connal  is  keen.  It  delights  to  shine  in  battle,  to  mix 


296  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSUN. 

with  the  blood  of  thousands.  But  though  my  hand  is 
bent  on  fight,  my  heart  is  for  the  peace  of  Erin.*  Be- 
hold, thou  first  in  Cormac's  war,  the  sable  fleet  of 
Swaran.  His  masts  are  many  on  our  coasts,  like  reeds 
on  the  lake  of  Lego.  His  ships  are  forests  clothed 
with  mists,  when  the  trees  yield  by  turns  to  the  squally 
wind.  Many  are  his  chiefs  in  battle.  Connal  is  for 
peace  !  Fingal  would  shun  his  arm,  the  first  of  mor- 
tal men  !  Fingal  who  scatters  the  mighty,  as  stormy 
winds  the  echoing  Cona  ;  and  night  settles  with  all  her 
clouds  on  the  hill  !" 

"  Fly,  thou  man  of  peace  !"  said  Colmar,  "  fly," 
said  the  son  of  Matha ;  "  go,  Connal,  to  thy  silent  hills, 
where  the  spear  never  brightens  in  war  !  Pursue  the 
dark-brown  deer  of  Cromla :  stop  with  thine  arrows 
the  bounding  roes  of  Lena.  But  blue-eyed  son  of 
Semo,  Cuthullin,  ruler  of  the  field,  scatter  thou  the 
sons  of  Lochlin  !f  roar  through  the  ranks  of  their  pride. 
Let  no  vessel  of  the  kingdom  of  snow  bound  on  the 
dark-rolling  waves  of  Inistore.^  Rise,  ye  dark  winds 
of  Erin,  rise  !  roar,  whirlwinds  of  Lara  of  hinds  ! 
Amid  the  tempest  let  me  die,  torn,  in  a  cloud,  by  angry 
ghosts  of  men  ;  amid  the  tempest  let  Calmar  die,  if 
ever  chase  was  sport  to  him,  so  much  as  the  battle  of 
shields  ! 

"  Calmar !"  Connal  slow  replied,  "  I  never  fled, 
young  son  of  Matha !  I  was  swift  with  my  friends  in 
fight ;  but  small  is  the  fame  of  Connal !  The  battle 
was  won  in  my  presence  !  the  valiant  overcame  !  But, 
son  of  Semo,  hear  my  voice,  regard  the  ancient  throne 
of  Cormac.  Give  wealth  and  half  the  land  for  peace, 
till  Fingal  shall  arrive  on  our  coast.  Or,  if  war  be  thy 

*  Erin,  a  name  of  Ireland ;  for  "  ear,"  or  "  iar,"  west,  and  "  in" 

an  island. 

t  The  Gaelic  name  of  a  Scandinavian  general. 
i  The  Orkney  islands. 


FINGAL.  297 

choice,  I  lift  the  sword  and  spear.  My  joy  shall  be  in 
the  midst  of  thousands  ;  my  soul  shall  alighten  through 
the  gloom  of  the  fight !" 

"  To  me,"  Cuthullin  replies,  "  pleasant  is  the  noise 
of  arms  !  pleasant  as  the  thunder  of  heaven,  hefore 
the  shower  of  spring  !  But  gather  all  the  shining 
tribes,  that  I  may  view  the  sons  of  war  !  Let  them 
pass  along  the  heath,  bright  as  the  sunshine  before  a 
storm  ;  when  the  west  wind  collects  the  clouds,  and 
Morven  echoes  over  all  her  oaks  !  But  where  are  my 
friends  in  battle  ?  the  supporters  of  my  arm  in  danger  ? 
Where  art  thou,  white-bosomed  Cathba  ?  Where  is 
that  cloud  in  war,  Duchomar  ?  Hast  thou  left  me,  O 
Fergus  !  in  the  day  of  the  storm  ?  Fergus,  first  in 
our  joy  at  the  feast !  son  of  Rossa  !  arm  of  death ! 
comest  thou  like  a  roe  from  Malmor  ?  like  a  hart  from 
thy  echoing  hills  ?  Hail,  thou  son  of  Rossa  !  what 
shades  the  soul  of  war  ?" 

"  Four  stones,"*  replied  the  chief,  "  rise  on  the  grave 
of  Cathba.  These  hands  have  laid  in  earth  Ducho- 
mar, that  cloud  in  war  !  Cathba,  son  of  Torman ! 
thou  wert  a  sunbeam  in  Erin.  And  thou,  O  valiant 
Duchomar  !  a  mist  of  the  marshy  Lano  ;  when  it 
moves  on  the  plains  of  autumn,  bearing  the  death  of 
thousands  along.  Morna !  fairest  of  maids  !  calm  is 
thy  sleep  in  the  cave  of  the  rock  !  Thou  hast  fallen 
in  darkness,  like  a  star,  that  shoots  across  the  desert ; 
when  the  traveller  is  alone,  and  mourns  the  transient 
beam  !" 

*  This  passage  alludes  to  the  manner  of  burial  among  the  ancient 
£cots.  They  opened  a  grave  six  or  eight  feet  deep ;  the  bottom 
was  lined  with  fine  clay  ;  and  on  this  they  laid  the  body  of  the  de- 
ceased, and,  if  a  warrior,  his  sword,  and  the  heads  of  twelve  ar- 
rows by  his  side.  Above  they  laid  another  stratum  of  clay,  in 
which  they  placed  the  horn  of  a  deer,  the  symbol  of  hunting.  The 
whole  was  covered  with  a  fine  mould,  ana  four  stones  placed  on 
end  to  mark  the  extent  of  the  grave.  These  are  the  four  stones 
alluded  to  here. 


298  THE   POEMS   OF    OSSIAN. 

"  Say,"  said  Semo's  blue-eyed  son,  "  say  how  fell 
the  chiefs  of  Erin.  Fell  they  by  the  sons  of  Lochlin, 
striving  in  the  battle  of  heroes  ?  Or  what  confines  the 
strong  in  arms  to  the  dark  and  narrow  house  ?" 

"  Cathba,"  replied  the  hero,  "  fell  by  the  sword  of 
Duchomar  at  the  oak  of  the  noisy  streams.  Duchomar 
carne  to  Tura's  cave ;  he  spoke  to  the  lovely  Morna. 
'  Morna,  fairest  among  women,  lovely  daughter  of 
strong-armed  Cormac  !  Why  in  the  circle  of  stones  : 
in  the  cave  of  the  rock  alone  ?  The  stream  murmurs 
along.  The  old  tree  groans  in  the  wind.  The  lake  is 
troubled  before  thee  :  dark  are  the  clouds  of  the  sky  ! 
But  thou  art  snow  on  the  heath  ;  thy  hair  is  the  mist 
of  Cromla ;  when  it  curls  on  the  hill,  when  it  shines 
to  the  beam  of  the  west !  Thy  breasts  are  two  smooth 
rocks  seen  from  Branno  of  streams.  Thy  arms,  like 
two  white  pillars  in  the  halls  of  the  great  Fingal.' 

"  '  From  whence,'  the  fair-haired  maid  replied, '  from 
whence  Duchomar,  most  gloomy  of  men  ?  Dark  are 
thy  brows  and  terrible  !  Red  are  thy  rolling  eyes  ! 
Does  Swaran  appear  on  the  sea  ?  What  of  the  foe, 
Duchomar  ?'  '  From  the  hill  I  return,  O  Morna,  from 
the  hill  of  the  dark-brown  hinds.  Three  have  I  slain 
with  my  bended  yew.  Three  with  my  long-bounding 
dogs  of  the  chase.  Lovely  daughter  of  Cormac,  I  love 
thee  as  my  soul :  I  have  slain  one  stately  deer  for  thee. 
High  was  his  branchy  head — and  fleet  his  feet  of  wind.' 
'  Duchomar  !'  calm  the  maid  replied,  '  I  love  thee  not, 
thou  gloomy  man  !  hard  is  thy  heart  of  rock  ;  dark  is 
thy  terrible  brow.  But  Cathba,  young  son  of  Torman, 
thou  art  the  love  of  Morna.  Thou  art  a  sunbeam,  in 
the  day  of  the  gloomy  storm.  Sawest  thou  the  son  of 
Torman,  lovely  on  the  hill  of  his  hinds  ?  Here  the 
daughter  of  Cormac  waits  the  coming  of  Cathba  !" 

"  '  Long  shall  Morna  wait,'  Duchomar  said,  '  long 
shall  Morna  wait  for  Cathba  !  Behold  this  sword  un- 


FINQAL.  299 

sheathed  !  Here  wanders  the  blood  of  Cathba.  Long 
shall  Morna  wait.  He  fell  by  the  stream  of  Branno  ! 
On  Croma  I  will  raise  his  tomb,  daughter  of  blue- 
shielded  Cormac  !  Turn  on  Duchomar  thine  eyes ;  his 
arm  is  strong  as  a  storm.'  '  Is  the  son  of  Torman 
fallen  ?'  said  the  wildly-bursting  voice  of  the  maid  ;  '  is 
he  fallen  on  his  echoing  hills,  the  youth  with  the  breast 
of  snow  ?  the  first  in  the  chase  of  hinds  !  the  foe  of 
the  strangers  of  ocean  !  Thou  art  dark*  to  me,  Du 
chomar  ;  cruel  is  thine  arm  to  Morna  !  Give  me  that 
sword,  my  foe !  I  loved  the  wandering  blood  of 
Cathba !' 

"  He  gave  the  sword  to  her  tears.  She  pierced  his 
manly  breast !  He  fell,  like  the  bank  of  a  mountain- 
stream,  and  stretching  forth  his  hand,  he  spoke :  '  Daugh- 
ter of  blue-shielded  Cormac  !  Thou  hast  slain  me  in 
youth  !  the  sword  is  cold  in  my  breast !  Morna  ;  I 
feel  it  cold.  Give  me  to  Moina  the  maid.  Duchomar 
was  the  dream  of  her  night !  She  will  raise  my  tomb  ; 
the  hunter  shall  raise  my  fame.  But  draw  the  sword 
from  my  breast.  Moina,  the  steel  is  cold  !'  She  came, 
in  all  her  tears  she  came  ;  she  drew  the  sword  from 
his  breast.  He  pierced  her  white  side  !  He  spread  her 
fair  locks  on  the  ground  !  Her  bursting  blood  sounds 
from  her  side :  her  white  arm  is  stained  with  red. 
Rolling  in  death  she  lay.  The  cave  re-echoed  to  her 
sighs." 

"  Peace,"  said  Cuthullin,  "  to  the  souls  of  the  heroes  ! 
their  deeds  were  great  in  fight.  Let  them  ride  around 
me  on  clouds.  Let  them  show  their  features  of  war. 
My  soul  shall  then  be  firm  in  danger  ;  mine  arm  like 
the  thunder  of  heaven !  But  be  thou  on  a  moonbeam, 
O  Morna !  near  the  window  of  my  rest ;  when  my 
thoughts  are  of  peace  ;  when  the  din  of  arn~io  is  past. 

*  She  alludes  to  his  name  the  "  dark  man." 


300  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAN. 

Gather  the  strength  of  the  tribes  !  Move  to  the  war* 
of  Erin  !  Attend  the  car  of  my  battles  !  Rejoice  in 
the  noise  of  my  course  !  Place  three  spears  by  my 
side  :  follow  the  bounding  of  my  steeds  !  that  my  soul 
may  be  strong  in  my  friends,  when  battle  darken* 
around  the  beams  of  my  steel ! 

As  rushes  a  stream  of  foam  from  the  dark  shady 
deep  of  Cromla,  when  the  thunder  is  travelling  above, 
and  dark-brown  night  sits  on  half  the  hill.  Through 
the  breaches  of  the  tempest  look  forth  the  dim  faces 
of  ghosts.  So  fierce,  so  vast,  so  terrible,  rushed  on 
the  sons  of  Erin.  The  chief,  like  a  whale  of  ocean, 
whom  all  his  billows  pursue,  poured  valor  forth,  as  a 
stream,  rolling  his  might  along  the  shore.  The  sons 
of  Lochlin  heard  the  noise,  as  the  sound  of  a  winter 
storm.  Swaran  struck  his  bossy  shield  :  he  called  the 
son  of  Arno.  "  What  murmur  rolls  along  the  hill,  like 
the  gathered  flies  of  the  eve  ?  The  sons  of  Erin  de- 
scend, or  rustling  winds  roar  in  the  distant  wood ! 
Such  is  the  noise  of  Gonnal,  before  the  white  tops  of 
ray  waves  arise.  O  son  of  Arno !  ascend  the  hill ; 
view  the  dark  face  of  the  heath  !" 

He  went.  He  trembling  swift  returned.  His  eyes 
rolled  wildly  round.  His  heart  beat  high  against  his 
side.  His  words  were  faltering,  broken,  slow.  "  Arise, 
son  of  ocean,  arise,  chief  of  the  dark-brown  shields ! 
I  see  the  dark,  the  mountain-stream  of  battle  !  the  deep- 
moving  strength  of  the  sons  of  Erin  !  the  car  of  war 
comes  on,  like  the  flame  of  death  !  the  rapid  car  of 
Cuthullin,  the  noble  son  of  Semo !  It  bends  behind, 
like  a  wave  near  a  rock  ;  like  a  sun-streaked  mist  of 
the  heath.  Its  sides  are  embossed  with  stones,  and 
sparkle  like  the  sea  round  the  boat  of  night.  Of  pol- 
ished yew  is  its  beam ;  its  seat  of  the  smoothest  bone. 
The  sides  are  replenished  with  spears  ;  the  bottom  is 
'he  foot-stool  of  heroes  !  Before  the  right  side  of  the 


FINGAL.  301 

car  is  seen  the  snorting  horse !  the  high-maned,  broad- 
breasted,  proud,  wide-leaping,  strong  steed  of  the  hill. 
Loud  and  resounding  is  his  hoof :  the  spreading  of  his 
mane  above  is  like  a  stream  of  smoke  on  a  ridge  of 
rocks.  Bright  are  the  sides  of  his  steed  !  his  name  is 
Sulin-Sifadda ! 

"  Before  the  left  side  of  the  car  is  seen  the  snorting 
horse  !  The  thin-maned,  high-headed,  strong-hoofed 
fleet-bounding  son  of  the  hill :  His  name  is  Dusronnal, 
among  the  stormy  sons  of  the  sword  !  A  thousand 
thongs  bind  the  car  on  high.  Hard  polished  bits  shine 
in  wreath  of  foam.  Thin  thongs,  bright  studded  with 
gems,  bend  on  the  stately  necks  of  the  steeds.  The 
steeds,  that  like  wreaths  of  mist  fly  over  the  streamy 
vaies  !  The  wildness  of  deer  is  in  their  course,  the 
strength  of  eagles  descending  on  the  prey.  Their 
noise  is  like  the  blast  of  winter,  on  the  sides  of  the 
snow-headed  Gormal. 

"  Within  the  car  is  seen  the  chief ;  the  strong- 
armed  son  of  the  sword.  The  hero's  name  is  Cu- 
thullin,  son  of  Semo,  king  of  shells.  His  red  cheek 
is  like  my  polished  yew.  The  look  of  his  blue- 
rolling  eye  is  wide,  beneath  the  dark  arch  of  his 
brow.  His  hair  flies  from  his  head  like  a  flame,  as 
bending  forward  he  wields  the  spear.  Fly,  king  of 
ocean,  fly !  He  comes,  like  a  storm  along  the  streamy 
vale  ! 

"  When  did  I  fly  ?"  replied  the  king  ;  "  when  fled 
Swaran  from  the  battle  of  spears  ?  When  did  I  shrink 
from  danger,  chief  of  the  little  soul  ?  I  met  the  storm 
of  Gormal  when  the  foam  of  my  waves  beat  high. 
I  met  the  storm  of  the  clouds  ;  shall  Swaran  fly  from 
a  hero  ?  Were  Fingal  himself  before  me,  my  soul 
should  not  darken  with  fear.  Arise  to  battle,  my  thou- 
sands !  pour  round  me  like  the  echoing  main,  gather 
round  ths  bright  steel  of  your  king  ;  strong  as  the  rocks 
26 


302  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAN. 

of  my  land  ;  that  meet  the  storm  with  joy,  and  stretch 
their  dark  pines  to  the  wind  !" 

Like  autumn's  dark  storms  pouring  from  two  echo- 
ing hills,  towards  each  other  approached  the  heroes. 
Like  two  deep  .streams  from  high  rocks  meeting,  mix- 
ing  roaring  on  the  plain ;  loud,  rough,  and  dark  in  bat- 
tle meet  Lochlin  and  Liis-fail.  Chief  mixes  his  strokes 
with  chief,  and  man  with  man  :  steel,  clanging,  sounds 
on  steel.  Helmets  are  cleft  on  high.  Blood  bursts 
and  smokes  around.  Strings  murmur  on  the  polished 
yews.  Darts  rush  along  the  sky.  Spears  fall  like  the 
circles  of  light,  which  gild  the  face  of  night :  as  the 
noise  of  the  troubled  ocean,  when  roll  the  waves  on 
high.  As  the  last  peal  of  thunder  in  heaven,  such  is 
the  din  of  war !  Though  Cormac's  hundred  bards 
were  there  to  give  the  fight  to  song ;  feeble  was  the 
voice  of  a  hundred  bards  to  send  the  deaths  to  future 
times  !  For  many  were  the  deaths  of  heroes  ;  wide 
poured  the  blood  of  the  brave  ! 

Mourn  ye  sons  of  song,  mourn  tne  death  of  the 
noble  Sithallin.  Let  the  sons  of  Fiona  rise,  on  the 
lone  plains  of  her  lovely  Ardan.  They  fell,  like  two 
hinds  of  the  desert,  by  the  hands  of  the  mighty  Swa- 
ran ;  when,  in  the  midst  of  thousands,  he  roared  like 
the  shrill  spirit  of  a  storm.  He  sits  dim  on  the  clouds 
of  the  north,  and  enjoys  the  death  of  the  mariner.  Nor 
slept  thy  hand  by  thy  side,  cliief  of  the  isle  of  mist  !* 
many  were  the  deaths  of  thine  arm,  Cuthullin,  thou 
son  of  Semo  !  His  sword  was  like  the  beam  of  heaven 
when  it  pierces  the  sons  of  the  vale  ;  when  the  people 
are  blasted  and  fall,  and  all  the  hills  are  burning 
around.  Dusronnal  snorted  over  the  bodies  of  heroes. 
Sifadda  bathed  his  hoof  in  blood.  The  battle  lay  be- 

*  Tht  isle  of  Sky  ;  not  improperly  called  the  "  isle  of  mist,"  as 
its  high  hills,  which  catch  the  clouds  from  the  Western  Ocean,  oc- 
casion almost  conti-iual  rains. 


FINGAL.  303 

hind  them,  as  groves  overturned  on  the  desert  of  Crom- 
la  ;  when  the  blast  has  passed  the  heath,  laden  with  the 
spirits  of  night ! 

Weep  on  the  rocks  of  roaring  winds,  O  maid  of  Inis- 
tore  !  Bend  thy  fair  head  over  the  waves,  thou  lovelier 
than  the  ghost  of  the  hills,  when  it  moves  on  the  sun- 
beam, at  noon,  over  the  silence  of  Morven.  He  is 
fallen  :  thy  youth  is  low  !  pale  beneath  the  sword  of 
Cuthullin  !  No  more  shall  valor  raise  thy  love  to  match 
the  blood  of  kings.  Trenar,  graceful  Trenar  died,  O 
maid  of  Inistore  !  His  gray  dogs  are  howling  at  home  : 
they  see  his  passing  ghost.  His  bow  is  in  the  hall  un- 
etrung.  No  sound  is  in  the  hall  of  his  hinds ! 

As  roll  a  thousand  waves  to  the  rocks,  so  Swaran's 
host  came  on.  As  meets  a  rock  a  thousand  waves,  so 
Erin  met  Swaran  of  spears.  Death  raises  all  his  voices 
around,  and  mixes  with  the  sounds  of  shields.  Each 
hero  is  a  pillar  of  darkness  ;  the  sword  a  beam  of  fire 
in  his  hand.  The  field  echoes  from  wing  to  wing,  as  a 
hundred  hammers,  that  rise,  by  turns,  on  the  red  son 
of  the  furnace.  Who  are  these  on  Lena's  heath,  these 
so  gloomy  and  dark  ?  Who  are  these  like  two  clouds, 
and  their  swords  like  lightning  above  them  ?  The  little 
hills  are  troubled  around ;  the  rocks  tremble  with  all 
their  moss.  Who  is  it  but  ocean's  son  and  the  car-borne 
chisf  of  Erin  ?  Many  are  the  anxious  eyes  of  their 
friends,  as  they  see  them  dim  on  the  heath.  But  night 
conceals  the  chiefs  in  clouds,  and  ends  the  dreadful 
fight! 

It  was  on  Cromla's  shaggy  side  that  Dorglas  had 
placed  the  deer  ;  the  early  fortune  of  the  chase,  before 
the  heroes  left  the  hill.  A  hundred  youths  collect  the 
heath ;  ten  warriors  wake  the  fire  ;  three  hui/dred 
choose  the  polished  stones.  The  feast  is  smoking 
wide  !  Cuthullin,  chief  of  Erin's  war,  resumed  his 
mighty  soul.  He  stood  upon  his  beamy  spear,  and 


304  THE-  POEMS  OF  OSSi'AN. 

spoke  to  the  son  of  songs ;  to  Carril  of  other  times, 
the  gray-headed  son  of  Kinfena.  "  Is  this  feast  spread 
for  me  alone,  and  the  king  of  Lochlin  on  Erin's  shore, 
far  from  the  deer  of  his  hills,  and  sounding  halls  of  his 
feasts  ?  Rise,  Carril  of  other  times,  carry  my  words 
to  Swaran.  Tell  him  from  the  roaring  of  waters,  that 
Cuthullin  gives  his  feast.  Here  let  him  listen  to  the 
sound  of  my  groves,  amidst  the  clouds  of  night,  for 
cold  and  bleak  the  blustering  winds  rush  over  the  foam 
of  his  seas.  Here  let  him  praise  the  trembling  harp, 
and  hear  the  songs  of  heroes !" 

Old  Carril  went  with  softest  voice.  He  called  the 
king  of  dark-brown  shields  !  Rise,  from  the  skins  of 
thy  chase  ;  rise,  Swaran,  king  of  groves  !  Cuthullin 
gives  the  joy  of  shells.  Partake  the  feast  of  Erin's 
blue-eyed  chief!  He  answered  like  the  sullen  sound 
of  Cromla  before  a  storm.  Though  all  thy  daughters, 
Inis-fail,  should  stretch  their  arms  of  snow,  should 
raise  the  heavings  of  their  breasts,  and  softly  roll  their 
eyes  of  love,  yet  fixed  as  Lochlin's  thousand  rocks 
here  Swaran  should  remain,  till  morn,  with  the  young 
beams  of  the  east,  shall  light  me  to  the  death  of  Cu- 
thullin. Pleasant  to  my  ear  is  Lochlin's  wind !  It 
rushes  over  my  seas  !  It  speaks  aloft  in  all  my  shrouds, 
and  brings  my  green  forests  to  my  mind  :  the  green 
forests  of  Gormal,  which  often  echoed  to  my  winds 
when  my  spear  was  red  in  the  chase  of  the  boar.  Lei 
dark  Cuthullin  yield  to  me  the  ancient  throne  of  Cor- 
mac,  or  Erin's  torrents  shall  show  from  their  hills  the 
red  foam  of  the  blood  of  his  pride  ! 

"  Sad  is  the  sound  of  Swaran's  voice,"  said  Carril 
of  other  times !  "  Sad  to  himself  alone,"  said  the 
blue-eyed  son  of  Semo.  "  But,  Carril,  raise  the  voice 
on  high  ;  tell  the  deeds  of  other  times.  Send  thou  the 
night  away  hi  song,  and  give  the  joy  of  grief.  For 
many  heroes  and  maids  of  love  have  moved  on  Inis- 


FINGAL.  305 

foil,  and  lovely  ai ;,  the  songs  of  wo  that  are  heard 
on  Albion's  rocks,  when  the  noise  of  the  chase  is  past, 
and  the  streams  of  Cona*  answer  to  the  voice  of 
Ossian." 

"  In  other  days,"  Carril  replies,  "  came  the  sons  of 
ocean  to  Erin  ;  a  thousand  vessels  bounded  on  waves 
to  Ullin's  lovely  plains.  The  sons  of  Inis-fail  arose  to 
meet  the  race  of  dark-brown  shields.  Cairbar,  first 
of  men,  was  there,  and  Grudar,  stately  youth  !  Long 
had  they  strove  for  the  spotted  bull  that  lowed  on  Gol- 
bun's  echoing  heath.  Each  claimed  him  as  his  own. 
Death  was  often  at  the  point  of  their  steel.  Side  by 
side  the  heroes  fought;  the  strangers  of  ocean  fled. 
Whose  name  was  fairer  on  the  hill  than  the  name  of 
Cairbar  and  Grudar  ?  But,  ah  !  why  ever  lowed  the 
bull  on  Golbun's  echoing  heath  ?  They  saw  him  leap- 
ing like  snow.  The  wrath  of  the  chiefs  returned. 

"  On  Lubar'sf  grassy  banks  they  fought ;  Grudar 
fell  in  his  blood.  Fierce  Cairbar  came  to  the  vale, 
where  Brassolis,  fairest  of  his  sisters,  all  alone,  raised 
the  song  of  grief.  She  sung  of  the  actions  of  Grudar, 
the  youth  of  her  secret  soul.  She  mourned  him  in  the 
field  of  blood,  but  still  she  hoped  for  his  return.  Her 
white  bosom  is  seen  from  her  robe,  as  the  moon  from 
the  clouds  of  night,  when  its  edge  heaves  white  on  the 
view  from  the  darkness  which  covers  its  orb.  Her 
voice  was  softer  than  the  harp  to  raise  the  song  of  grief. 
Her  soul  was  fixed  on  Grudar.  The  secret  look  of  her 
eye  was  his.  '  When  shalt  thou  come  in  thine  arms, 
hou  mighty  in  the  war  ?' 

"  '  Take,  Brassolis,'  Cairbar  came  and  said  ;  '  take, 
Brassolis,  this  shield  of  blood.  Fix  it  on  high  within 
my  hall,  the  armor  of  my  foe  !'  Her  soft  heart  beat 

*  The  Cona  here  mentioned  is  the  small  river  that  runs  through 
Glenco  in  Argjleshire. 

f  Lubar,  a  river  in  Ulster.    "  Labhar,"  loud,  noisy. 
26* 


306  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN» 

against  her  side.  Distracted,  pale,  she  flew.  She 
found  her  youth  in  all  his  blood ;  she  died  on  Cromla's 
heath.  Here  rests  their  dust,  Cuthullin  !  these  lonely 
vews  sprung  from  their  tombs,  and  shade  them  from 
the  storm.  Fair  was  Brassolis  on  the  plain  !  Stately 
was  Grudar  on  the  hill !  The  bard  shall  preserve  their 
names,  and  send  them  down  to  future  times  !" 

"  Pleasant  is  thy  voice,  O  Carril,"  said  the  blue-eyed 
chief  of  Erin.  Pleasant  are  the  words  of  other  times. 
They  are  like  the  calm  shower  of  spring,  when  the  sun 
looks  on  the  field,  and  the  light  cloud  flies  over  the 
hills.  O  strike  the  harp  in  praise  of  my  love,  the 
lonely  sunbeam  of  Dunscaith  !  Strike  the  harp  in  the 
praise  of  Bragela,  she  that  I  left  in  the  isle  of  mist,  the 
spouse  of  Semo's  son  !  Dost  thou  raise  thy  fair  face 
from  the  rock  to  find  the  sails  of  Cuthullin  ?  The  sea 
is  rolling  distant  far  :  its  white  foam  deceives  thee  for 
my  sails.  Retire,  for  it  is  night,  my  love  ;  the  dark 
winds  sigh  in  thy  hair.  Retire  to  the  halls  of  my  feasts, 
think  of  the  times  that  are  past.  I  will  not  return  till 
the  storm  of  war  is  ceased.  O  Connal  !  speak  of  war 
and  arms,  and  send  her  from  my  mind.  Lovely  with 
her  flowing  hair  is  the  white-bosomed  daughter  of 
Sorglan." 

Connal,  slow  to  speak,  replied,  "  Guard  against  the 
race  of  ocean.  Send  thy  troop  of  night  abroad,  and 
watch  the  strength  of  Swaran.  Cuthullin,  I  am  for 
peace  till  the  race  of  Selma  come,  till  Fingal  come, 
the  first  of  men,  and  beam,  like  the  sun,  on  our  fields  !" 
The  hero  struck  the  shield  of  alarms,  the  warriors  of 
the  night  moved  on.  The  rest  lay  in  the  heath  of 
the  deer,  and  slept  beneath  the  dusky  wind.  The 
ghosts*  of  the  lately  dead  were  near,  and  swam  on 

*  It  was  long  the  opinion  of  the  ancient  Scots,  that  a  ghost  waa 
heard  shr  eking  near  the  place  where  a  death  was  to  happen  soon 
after. 


FINGAL.  307 

the  gloomy  clouds;  and  far  distant  in  the  dark  si- 
lence of  Lena,  the  feeble  voices  of  death  were  faintly 
heard. 


BOOK  II. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  ghost  of  Crugal,  one  of  the  Irish  heroes  who  was  killed  in 
battle,  appearing  to  Connal,  foretells  the  defeat  of  Cuthullin  in 
the  next  battle,  and  earnestly  advises  him  to  make  peace  with 
Swaran.  Connal  communicates  the  vision ;  but  Cuthullin  is  in- 
flexible ;  from  a  principle  of  honor  he  would  not  be  the  first  to 
sue  for  peace,  and  he  resolved  to  continue  the  war.  Morning 
comes ;  Swaran  proposes  dishonorable  terms  to  Cuthullin,  which 
are  rejected.  The  battle  begins,  and  is  obstinately  fought  for 
some  time,  until,  upon  the  flight  of  Grumal,  the  whole  Irish  army 
gave  way.  Cuthullin  and  Connal  cover  their  retreat.  Carril 
leads  them  to  a  neighboring  hill,  whither  they  are  soon  followed 
by  Cuthullin  himself,  who  descries  the  fleet  of  Fingal  making 
towards  their  coast ;  but  night  C9ming  on,  he  lost  sight  of  it 
again.  Cuthullin,  dejected  after  his  defeat,  attributes  his  ill  suc- 
cess to  the  death  of  Ferda,  his  friend,  whom  he  had  killed  some 
time  before.  Carril,  to  show  that  ill  success  did  not  always  at- 
tend those  who  innocently  killed  their  friends,  introduces  the 
episode  of  Connal  and  Galvina. 

CONNAL  lay  by  the  sound  of  the  mountain-stream, 
beneath  the  aged  tree.  A  stone,  with  its  moss,  sup- 
ported his  head.  Shrill,  through  the  heath  of  Lena, 
he  heard  the  voice  of  night.  At  distance  from  the 
heroes  he  lay ;  the  son  of  the  sword  feared  no  foe ! 
The  hero  beheld,  in  his  rest,  a  ckirk-red  stream  of  fire 
rushing  down  from  the  hill.  Crugal  sat  upon  the  beam, 
a  chief  who  fell  in  fight.  He  fell  by  the  hand  of  Swa- 
ran, striving  in  the  battle  of  heroes.  His  face  is  like 
the  beam  of  the  setting  moon.  His  robes  are  of  the 
clouds  of  the  hill.  His  eyes  are  two  decaying  flames. 


303  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIf . 

Dark  is  the  wound  of  his  breast !  "  Crugal,"  said  the 
mighty  Connal,  "  son  of  Dedgal  famed  on  the  hill  of 
hinds  !  Why  so  pale  and  sad,  thou  breaker  of  shields  ? 
Thou  hast  never  been  pale  for  fear !  What  disturbs 
the  departed  Crugal  ?"  Dim,  and  in  tears  he  stood, 
and  stretched  his  pale  hand  over  the  hero.  Faintly  he 
raised  his  feeble  voice,  like  the  gale  of  the  reedy  Lego. 

"My  spirit,  Connal,  is  on  my  hills;  my  course  on 
the  sands  of  Erin.  Thou  shalt  never  talk  with  Crugal, 
nor  find  his  lone  steps  in  the  heath.  I  am  light  as  the 
blast  of  Cromla.  I  move  like  the  shadow  of  mist ! 
Connal,  son  of  Col  gar,  I  see  a  cloud  of  death  :  it 
hovers  dark  over  the  plains  of  Lena.  The  sons  of 
green  Erin  must  fall.  Remove  from  the  field  of 
ghosts."  Like  the  darkened  moon  he  retired,  in  tho 
midst  of  the  whistling  blast.  "  Stay,"  said  the  mighty 
Connal ;  "  stay,  my  dark-red  friend.  Lay  by  that 
beam  of  heaven,  son  of  windy  Cromla  !  What  cave 
is  thy  lonely  house  ?  What  green-headed  hill  the  place 
of  thy  repose  ?  Shall  we  not  hear  thee  in  the  storm  ? 
in  the  noise  of  the  mountain-stream  ?  when  the  feeble 
sons  of  the  wind  come  forth,  and,  scarcely  seen,  pass 
over  the  desert  ?" 

The  soft-voiced  Connal  rose,  in  the  midst  of  his 
sounding  arms.  He  struck  his  shield  above  Cuthullin. 
The  son  of  battle  waked.  "  Why,"  said  the  ruler  of 
the  car,  "  comes  Connal  through  my  night  ?  My  spear 
might  turn,  against  the  sound,  and  Cuthullin  mourn  the 
death  of  his  friend.  Speak,  Connal ;  son  of  Colgar, 
speak  ;  thy  counsel  is  the  sun  of  heaven  !"  "  Son  of 
Semo  !"  replied  the  chief,  "  the  ghost  of  Crugal  came 
from  his  cave.  The  stars  dim  twinkled  through  his 
form.  His  voice  was  like  the  sound  of  a  distant  stream 
He  is  a  messenger  of  death  !  He  speaks  of  the  dark 
and  narrow  house  !  Sue  for  peace,  O  chief  of  Erin  ! 
or  flv  over  the  heath  of  Lena  !  I 


FINGAL.  309 

"He  spoke  to  Connal,"  replied  the  hero,  "though 
stars  dim  twinkled  through  his  form.  Son  of  Qolgar, 
it  was  the  wind  that  murmured  across  thy  ear.  Or  if 
it  was  the  form  of  Crugal,  why  didst  thou  not  force 
him  to  my  sight  ?  Hast  thou  inquired  where  is  his 
cave  ?  the  house  of  that  son  of  wind  ?  My  sword 
might  find  that  voice,  and  force  his  knowledge  from 
Crugal.  But  small  is  his  knowledge,  Connal ;  he  was 
here  to-day.  He  could  not  have  gone  beyond  our 
hills  !  who  could  tell  him  there  of  our  fall  ?"  "  Ghosts 
fly  on  clouds,  and  ride  on  winds,"  said  Connal's  voice 
of  wisdom.  "  They  rest  together  in  their  caves,  and 
talk  of  mortal  men." 

"  Then  let  them  talk  of  mortal  men  ;  of  every  man 
but  Erin's  chief.  Let  me  be  forgot  in  their  cave.  I 
•vill  not  fly  from  Swaran  !  If  fall  I  must,  my  tomb 
shall  rise  amidst  the  fame  of  future  times.  The  hunter 
shall  shed  a  tear  on  my  stone  :  sorrow  shall  dwell 
around  the  high-bosomed  Bragela.  I  fear  not  death; 
to  fly  I  fear  !  Fingal  has  seen  me  victorious  !  Thou 
dim  phantom  of  the  hill,  show  thyself  to  me  !  come  on 
thy  beam  of  heaven,  show  me  my  death  in  thine  hand  ! 
yet  I  will  not  fly,  thou  feeble  son  of  the  wind !  Go, 
son  of  Colgar,  strike  the  shield.  It  hangs  between  the 
spears.  Let  my  warriors  rise  to  the  sound  in  the  midst 
of  the  battles  of  Erin.  Though  Fingal  delays  his 
coming  with  the  race  of  his  stormy  isles,  we  shall  fight, 
O  Colgar's  son,  and  die  in  the  battle  of  heroes  !" 

The  sound  spreads  wide.  The  heroes  rise,  like  the 
breaking  of  a  blue-rolling  wave.  They  stood  on  the 
heath,  like  oaks  with  all  their  branches  round  them, 
when  they  echo  to  the  stream  of  frost,  and  their  wither, 
ed  leaves  are  rustling  to  the  wind  !  High  Cromla's 
head  of  clouds  is  gray.  Morning  trembles  on  the  half, 
enlightened  ocean.  The  blue  mist  swims  slowly  by, 
and  hides  the  sons  of  Inis-fail ! 


310  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIf. 

"Rise  ye,"  said  the  king  of  the  dark-brown  shields, 
"  ye  that  came  from  Lochlin's  waves.  The  sons  of 
Erin  have  fled  from  our  arms  ;  pursue  them  over  the 
plains  of  Lena  !  Morla,  go  to  Cormac's  hall.  Bid 
them  yield  to  Swaran,  before  his  people  sink  to  the 
tomb,  and  silence  spread  over  his  isle."  They  rose, 
rustling  like  a  flock  of  sea-fowl,  when  the  waves  expel 
them  from  the  shore.  Their  sound  was  like  a  thousand 
streams,  that  meet  in  Cona's  vale,  when  after  a  stormy 
night,  they  turn  their  dark  eddies  beneath  the  pale  light 
of  the  morn. 

As  the  dark  shades  of  autumn  fly  over  the  hills  of 
grass,  so  gloomy,  dark,  successive  came  the  chiefs  of 
Lochlin's  echoing  woods.  Tall  as  the  stag  of  Morven, 
moved  stately  before  them  the  king.  His  shining  shield 
is  on  his  side,  like  a  flame  on  the  heath  at  night,  when 
the  world  is  silent  and  dark,  and  the  traveller  sees 
some  ghosts  sporting  in  the  beam  !  Dimly  gleam  the 
hills  around,  and  show  indistinctly  their  oaks  !  A  blast 
from  the  troubled  ocean  removed  the  settled  mist.  The 
sons  of  Erin  appear,  like  a  ridge  of  rocks  on  the  coast ; 
when  mariners,  on  shores  unknown,  are  trembling  at 
veering  winds  ! 

;'  Go,  Morla,  go,"  said  the  king  of  Lochlin,  "  offer 
peace  to  these.  Offer  the  terms  we  give  to  kings, 
when  nations  bow  down  to  our  swords.  When  the 
valiant  are  dead  in  war  ;  when  virgins  weep  on  the 
field  !"  Tall  Morla  came,  the  son  of  Swarth,  and 
stately  strode  the  youth  along  !  He  spoke  to  Erin's 
blue-eyed  chief,  among  the  lesser  heroes.  "  Take 
Swaran's  peace,"  the  warrior  spoke,  "  the  peace  ho 
gives  to  kings  when  nations  bow  to  his  sword.  Leave 
Erin's  streamy  plains  to  us,  and  give  thy  spouse  and 
dog.  Thy  spouse,  high-bosomed  heaving  fair  !  Thy 
dog  that  overtakes  the  wind  !  Give  these  to  prove  the 
weakness  of  thine  arm,  live  then  beneath  our  power !" 


FINGAL.  311 

"Tell  Swaran,  tell  that  heart  of  pride,  Cuthullin 
never  yields  !  I  give  him  the  dark-rolling  sea  ;  I  give 
his  people  graves  in  Erin.  But  never  shall  a  stranger 
have  the  pleasing  sunbeam  of  my  love.  No  deer  shall 
fly  on  Lochlin's  hills,  before  swift-footed  Luath." 
"Vain  ruler  of  the  car,"  said  Morla,  "  wilt  thou  then 
fight  the  king  ?  the  king  whose  ships  of  many  groves 
could  carry  off  thine  isle  !  So  little  is  thy  green-hilled 
Erin  to  him  who  rules  the  stormy  waves  !"  "  In  words 
I  yield  to  many,  Morla.  My  sword  shall  yield  to  none. 
Erin  shall  own  the  sway  of  Cormac  while  Connal  and 
Cuthullin  live !  O  Connal,  first  of  mighty  men,  thou 
nearest  the  words  of  Morla.  Shall  thy  thoughts  then 
be  of  peace,  thou  breaker  of  the  shields  ?  Spirit  of 
fallen  Crugal,  why  didst  thou  threaten  us  with  death  ? 
The  narrow  house  shall  receive  me  in  the  midst  of  the 
light  of  renown.  Exalt,  ye  sons  of  Erin,  exalt  the 
spear  and  bend  the  bow  ;  rush  on  the  foe  in  darkness, 
as  the  spirits  of  stormy  nights  !" 

Then  dismal,  roaring  fierce  and  deep,  the  gloom  of 
battle  poured  along,  as  mist  that  is  rolled  on  a  valley 
when  storms  invade  the  silent  sunshine  of  heaven. 
Cuthullin  moves  before  me  in  arms,  like  an  angry 
ghost  before  a  cloud,  when  meteors  enclose  him  with 
fire  ;  when  the  dark  winds  are  in  his  hand.  Carril, 
far  on  the  heath,  bids  the  horn  of  battle  sound.  He 
raises  the  voice  of  song,  and  pours  his  soul  into  the 
minds  of  the  brave. 

"  Whore,"  said  the  mouth  of  the  song,  "  where  is 
the  fallen  Crugal  ?  He  lies  forgot  on  earth  ;  the  hall 
of  shells*  is  silent.  Sad  is  the  spouse  of  Crugal.  She 
is  a  stranger  in  the  hall  of  her  grief.  But  who  is  she 
that,  like  a  sunbeam,  flies  before  the  ranks  of  the  foe  ? 

*  The  ancient  Scots,  as  well  as  the  present  Highlanders,  drunk 
in  Bhells ;  hence  it  is,  that  we  so  often  meet  in  the  old  poetry,  with 
"  chief  of  shells,"  and  "  the  hall  o."  shells." 


312  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1A*. 

It  is  Degrena,  lovely  fair,  the  spouse  of  fallen  Crugal. 
Her  hair  is  on  the  wind  behind.  Her  eye  is  red  ;  her 
voice  is  shrill.  Pale,  empty,  is  thy  Crugal  now  !  His 
form  is  in  the  cave  of  the  hill.  He  comes  to  the  ear 
of  rest ;  he  raises  his  feeble  voice,  like  the  humming 
of  the  mountain-bee,  like  the  collected  flies  of  the  eve  ! 
But  Degrena  falls  like  a  cloud  of  the  morn  ;  the  sword 
of  Lochlin  is  in  her  side.  Cairbar,  she  is  fallen,  the 
rising  thought  of  thy  youth  !  She  is  fallen,  O  Cairbar  ! 
the  thought  of  thy  youthful  hours  !" 

Fierce  Cairbar  heard  the  mournful  sound.  He  rush- 
ed  along  like  ocean's  whale.  He  saw  the  death  of  his 
daughter :  he  roared  in  the  midst  of  thousands.  His 
spear  met  a  son  of  Lochlin  !  battle  spreads  from  wing 
to  wing  !  As  a  hundred  winds  in  Lochlin's  groves,  as 
fire  in  the  pines  of  a  hundred  hills,  so  loud,  so  ruinous, 
so  vast,  the  ranks  of  men  are  hewn  down.  Cuthullin 
cut  off  heroes  like  thistles ;  Swaran  wasted  Erin. 
Curach  fell  by  his  hand,  Cairbar  of  the  bossy  shield  ! 
Morglan  lies  in  lasting  rest !  Ca-olt  trembles  as  he 
dies  !  His  white  breast  is  stained  with  blood  !  his  yel- 
low hair  stretched  in  the  dust  of  his  native  land !  He 
often  had  spread  the  feast  where  he  fell.  He  often 
there  had  raised  the  voice  of  the  harp,  when  his  dogs 
leapt  round  for  joy,  and  the  youths  of  the  chase  pre- 
pared the  bow ! 

Still  Swaran  advanced,  as  a  stream  that  bursts  from 
the  desert.  The  little  hills  are  rolled  in  its  course,  the 
rocks  are  half-sunk  by  its  side.  But  Cuthullin  stood 
before  him,  like  a  hill,  that  catches  the  clouds  of 
heaven.  The  winds  contend  on  its  head  of  pines,  the 
hail  rattles  on  its  rocks.  But,  firm  in  its  strength,  it 
stands,  and  shades  the  silent  vale  of  Cona.  So  Cuthul- 
lin shaded  the  sons  of  Erin,  and  stood  in  the  midst  of 
thousands.  Blood  rises  like  the  fount  of  a  rock  from 


FINGAL.  313 

panting  heroes  around.    But  Erin  falls  on  either  wing, 
like  snow  in  the  day  of  the  sun. 

"  O  so  is  of  Erin,"  said  Grumal,  "  Lochlin  conquers 
on  the  field.  Why  strive  we  as  reeds  against  the 
wind  ?  Fly  to  the  hill  of  dark-brown  hinds."  He  fled 
like  the  stag  of  Morven  ;  his  spear  is  a  trembling  beam 
of  light  behind  him.  Few  fled  with  Grumal,  chief  of 
the  little  soul :  they  fell  in  the  battle  of  heroes  on  Lena's 
echoing  heath.  High  on  his  car  of  many  gems  the 
chief  of  Erin  stood.  He  slew  a  mighty  son  of  Lochlin, 
and  spoke  in  haste  to  Connal.  "  O  Connal,  first  of 
mortal  men,  thou  hast  taught  this  arm  of  death  !  Though 
Erin's  sons  have  fled,  shall  we  not  fight  the  foe  ?  Carril, 
son  of  other  times,  carry  my  friends  to  that  bushy  hill. 
Here,  Connal,  let  us  stand  like  rocks,  and  save  our  fly. 
ing  friends." 

Connal  mounts  the  car  of  gems.  They  stretch  their 
shields,  like  the  darkened  moon,  the  daughter  of  the 
starry  skies,  when  she  moves  a  dun  circle  through 
heaven,  and  dreadful  change  is  expected  by  men.  Sith- 
fadda  panted  up  the  hill,  and  Stronnal,  haughty  steed. 
Like  waves  behind  a  whale,  behind  them  rushed  the 
foe.  Now  on  the  rising  side  of  Cromla  stood  Erin's 
few  sad  sons  :  like  a  grove  through  which  the  flame 
had  rushed,  hurried  on  by  the  winds  of  the  stormy 
night ;  distant,  withered,  dark,  they  stand,  with  not  a 
leaf  to  shake  in  the  vale. 

Cuthullin  stood  beside  an  oak.  He  rolled  his  red 
eye  in  silence,  and  heard  the  wind  in  his  bushy  hair ; 
the  scout  of  ocean  came,  Moran  the  son  of  Fithil 
"  The  ships,"  he  cried,  "  the  ships  of  the  lonely  isles. 
Fingal  comes,  the  first  of  men,  the  breaker  of  the 
shields  !  The  waves  foam  before  his  black  prows ! 
His  masts  with  sails  are  like  groves  in  clouds  !"— 
'•  Blow,"  said  Cuthullin,  "  blow,  ye  winds  that  rush 
along  my  isle  of  mist.  Come  to  the  death  of  tnou- 
27 


314  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AX. 

sands,  O  king  of  resounding  Selma !  Thy  sails,  my 
friend,  are  to  me  the  clouds  of  the  morning  ;  thy  ships 
the  light  of  heaven  ;  and  thou  thyself  a  pillar  of  fire 
that  beams  on  the  world  by  night.  O  Connal,  first  of 
men,  how  pleasing  in  grief  are  our  friends  !  But  the 
night  is  gathering  around.  Where  now  are  the  ships 
of  Fingal  ?  Here  let  us  pass  the  hours  of  darkness ; 
here  wish  for  the  moon  of  heaven." 

The  winds  came  down  on  the  woods.  The  torrents 
rush  from  the  rocks.  Rain  gathers  round  the  head  of 
Cromla.  The  red  stars  tremble  between  the  flying 
clouds.  Sad,  by  the  side  of  a  stream,  whose  sound  is 
echoed  by  a  tree,  sad  by  the  side  of  a  stream  the  chief 
of  Erin  sits.  Connal,  son  of  Colgar,  is  there,  and 
Carril  of  other  times.  "  Unhappy  is  the  hand  of  Cu- 
thullin,"  said  the  son  of  Semo,  "  unhappy  is  the  hand 
of  Cuthullin  since  he  slew  his  friend  !  Ferda,  son  of 
Damman,  I  loved  thee  as  myself!" 

"  How,  Cuthullin,  son  of  Semo,  how  fell  the  breaker 
of  the  shields  ?  Weil  I  remember,"  said  Connal,  "  the 
son  of  the  noble  Damman.  Tall  and  fair,  he  was  like 
the  rainbow  of  heaven.  Ferda  from  Albion  came,  the 
chief  of  a  hundred  hills.  In  Muri's*  hall  he  learned 
the  sword,  and  won  the  friendship  of  Cuthullin.  We 
moved  to  the  chase  together :  one  was  our  bed  in  the 
heath." 

Deugala  was  the  spouse  of  Cairbar,  chief  of  the 
plains  of  Ullin.  She  was  covered  with  the  light  of 
beauty,  but  her  heart  was  the  house  of  pride.  She 
loved  that  sunbeam  of  youth,  the  son  of  the  noble 
Damman.  "  Cairbar,"  said  the  white-armed  Deugala, 
"  give  me  half  of  the  herd.  No  more  I  will  remain  in 
your  halls.  Divide  the  herd,  dark  Cairbar  !"  "  Let 
Cuthullin,"  said  Cairbar,  "  divide  my  herd  on  the  hill. 

*  A  place  in  Ulster. 


FINGAL.  315 

His  breast  is  the  seat  of  justice.  Depart,  thou  light 
of  beauty  !"  I  went  and  divided  the  herd.  One  snow- 
white  bull  remained.  I  gave  that  bull  to  Cairbar.  The 
wrath  of  Deugala  rose  ! 

"  Son  of  Damman,"  began  the  fair,  "  Cuthullin  hath 
pained  my  soul.  I  must  hear  of  his  death,  or  Lubar's 
stream  shall  roll  over  me.  My  pale  ghost  shall  wan- 
der near  thee,  and  mourn  the  wound  of  my  pride. 
Pour  out  the  blood  of  Cuthullin,  or  pierce  this  heaving 
breast."  "  Deugala,"  said  the  fair-haired  youth,  "  how 
shall  I  slay  the  son  of  Semo  ?  He  is  the  friend  of  my 
secret  thoughts.  Shall  I  then  lift  the  sword  ?"  She 
wept  three  days  before  the  chief;  on  the  fourth  he 
said  he  would  fight.  "  I  will  fight  my  friend,  Deugala, 
but  may  I  fall  by  his  sword  !  Could  I  wander  on  the 
hill  alone  ?  Could  I  behold  the  grave  of  Cuthullin  ?" 
We  fought  on  the  plain  of  Mori.  Our  swords  avoid  a 
wound.  They  slide  on  the  helmets  of  steel,  or  sound 
on  the  slippery  shields.  Deugala  was  near  with  a 
smile,  and  said  to  the  son  of  Damman  :  "  Thine  arm 
is  feeble,  sunbeam  of  youth  !  Thy  years  are  not  strong 
for  steel.  Yield  to  the  son  of  Semo.  He  is  a  rock  on 
Malmor." 

The  tear  is  in  the  eye  of  youth.  He  faltering  said 
to  me  :  "  Cuthullin,  raise  thy  bossy  shield.  Defend 
thee  from  the  hand  of  thy  friend.  My  soul  is  laden 
with  grief,  for  I  must  slay  the  chief  of  men."  I  sighed 
as  the  wind  in  the  cleft  of  a  rock.  I  lifted  high  the 
edge  of  my  steel.  The  sunbeam  of  battle  fell :  the 
first  of  Cuthullin's  friends !  Unhappy  is  the  hand  of 
Cuthullin  since  the  hero  fell !" 

"  Mournful  is  thy  tale,  son  of  the  car,"  said  Carril 
of  other  times.  "  It  sends  my  soul  back  to  the  ages 
of  old,  to  the  days  of  other  years.  Often  have  I  heard 
of  Comal,  who  slew  the  friend  he  loved  j  yet  victory 


316  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

attended  his  steel :  the  battle  was  consumed  in  hia 
presence  !" 

Comal  was  the  son  of  Albion,  the  chief  of  a  hundred 
hills  !  His  deer  drunk  of  a  thousand  streams.  A 
thousand  rocks  replied  to  the  voice  of  his  dogs.  His 
face  was  the  mildness  of  youth  ;  his  hand  the  death  of 
heroes.  One  was  his  love,  and  fair  was  she,  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  mighty  Conloch.  She  appeared  like  a  sun- 
beam  among  women.  Her  hair  was  the  wing  of  the 
raven.  Her  dogs  were  taught  to  the  chase.  Her 
bowstring  sounded  on  the  winds.  Her  soul  was  fixed 
on  Comal.  Often  met  their  eyes  of  love.  Their  course 
in  the  chase  was  one.  Happy  were  their  words  in 
secret.  But  Grumal  loved  the  maid,  the  dark  chief 
of  the  gloomy  Ardven.  He  watched  her  lone  steps 
in  the  heath,  the  foe  of  unhappy  Comal. 

One  day,  tired  of  the  chase,  when  the  mist  had  con- 
cealed their  friends,  Comal  and  the  daughter  of  Con- 
loch  met  in  the  cave  of  Ronan.  It  was  the  wonted 
haunt  of  Comal.  Its  sides  were  hung  with  his  arms. 
A  hundred  shields  of  thongs  were  there ;  a  hundred 
helms  of  sounding  steel.  "  Rest  here,"  he  said,  "  my 
love,  Galbina  :  thou  light  of  the  cave  of  Ronan !  A 
deer  appears  on  Mora's  brow.  I  go ;  but  I  will  soon 
return."  "I  fear,"  she  said,  "dark  Grumal,  my  foe: 
ne  haunts  the  cave  of  Ronan  !  I  will  rest  among  the 
arms ;  but  soon  return,  my  love  !" 

He  went  to  the  deer  of  Mora.  The  daughter  of 
Conloch  would  try  his  love.  She  clothed  her  fair  sides 
with  his  armor :  she  strode  from  the  cave  of  Ronan ! 
he  thought  it  was  his  foe.  His  heart  beat  high.  His 
color  changed,  and  darkness  dimmed  his  eyes.  He 
drew  the  bow.  The  arrow  flew.  Galbina  fell  in 
blood  !  He  run  with  wildness  in  his  steps :  he  called 
the  daughter  of  Conloch.  No  answer  in  the  lonely 
rock.  Where  art  thou,  O  my  love  ?  He  saw  at  length 


FINGAL.  317 

her  heaving  heart,  beating  around  the  arrow  he  threw. 
"  O  Conloch's  daughter  !  is  it  thou  ?"  He  sunk  upon 
her  breast !  The  hunters  found  the  hapless  pair !  lie 
afterward  walked  the  hill.  But  many  and  silent  were 
his  steps  round  the  dark  dwelling  of  his  love.  The 
fleet  of  the  ocean  came.  He  fought ;  the  strangers 
fled.  He  searched  for  death  along  the  field.  But  who 
could  slay  the  mighty  Comal  ?  He  threw  away  his 
dark-brown  shield.  An  arrow  found  his  manly  breast. 
He  sleeps  with  his  loved  Galbina  at  the  noise  of  the 
sounding  surge  !  Their  green  tombs  are  seen  by  the 
mariner,  when  he  bounds  on  the  waves  of  the  north. 
27* 


BOOK  HI.» 

•     ARGUMENT. 

Cuthullin,  pleased  with  the  story  of  Carril,  insists  wnh  that  bard  for 
more  of  his  songs.  He  relates  the  actions  of  Fingal  in  Locliljn. 
and  death  of  Agandecca,  the  beautiful  sister  of  Swaran.  He  had 
scarce  finished,  when  Calmar,  the  son  of  Matha,  who  had  advised 
the  first  battle,  came  wounded  from  the  field,  and  told  them  of 
Swaran's  design  to  surprise  the  remains  of  the  Irish  army.  He 
himself  proposes  to  withstand  singly  the  whole  force  of  the  ene- 
my, in  a  narrow  pass,  till  the  Irish  should  make  good  their  retreat. 
Cuthullin,  touched  with  the  gallant  proposal  of  Calmar,  resolves 
to  accompany  him.  and  orders  Carril  to  carry  oft'  the  few  that 
remained  of  the  Irish.  Morning  comes,  Calmar  dies  of  his  wounds; 
and  the  ships  of  the  Caledonians  appearing,  Swaran  gives  ovei 
the  pursuit  of  the  Irish,  and  returns  to  oppose  Fingal's  landing 
Cuthullin,  ashamed,  after  his  defeat,  to  appear  before  Fingal,  re 
tires  to  the  cave  of  Tura.  Fingal  engages  the  enemy,  puts  them 
to  flight:  but  the  coining  on  of  night  makes  the  victory  not  de- 
cisive. The  king,  who  had  observed  the  gallant  behavior  of  his 
grandson  Oscar,  gives  him  advice  concerning  his  conduct  in 
peace  and  war.  He  recommends  to  him  to  place  the  example  of 
his  fathers  before  his  eyes,  as  the  -best  model  for  his  conduct ; 
which  introduces  the  episode  concerning  Fainasollis,  the  daughter 
of  the  king  of  Craca,  whom  Fingal  had  taken  under  his  protec- 
tion in  his  youth.  Fillan  and  Oscar  are  despatched  to  observe 
the  motions  of  the  enemy  by  night :  Gaul,  the  son  of  Momi,  de- 
sires the  command  of  the  army  in  the  next  battle,  which  Fingal 
promises  to  give  him.  Some  general  reflections  of  the  poet  close 
the  third  day. 

"  PLEASANT  are  the  words  of  the  song !"  said  Cu- 
thullin, "  lovely  the  tales  of  other  times !  They  are  like 
the  calm  dew  of  the  morning  on  the  hill  of  roes  !  when 
the  sun  is  faint  on  its  side,  and  the  lake  is  settled  and 
blue  on  the  vale.  O  Carril,  raise  again  thy  voice  !  let 
me  hear  the  song  of  Selma :  which  was  sung  in  my 

*  The  second  night,  since  the  opening  of  the  poem,  continues ; 
and  Cuthullin,  Connal,  and  Carril,  still  sit  in  the  place  described  in 
the  preceding  book. 


FINGAL.  319 

halls  of  joy,  when  Fingal,  king  of  shields,  was  there, 
and  glowed  at  the  deeds  of  his  fathers. 

"  Fingal !  thou  dweller  of  battle,"  said  Carril,  "early 
were  thy  deeds  in  arms.  Lochlin  was  consumed  in 
thy  wrath,  when  thy  youth  strove  in  the  beauty  of 
maids.  They  smiled  at  the  fair-blooming  face  of  the 
hero ;  but  death  was  in  his  hands.  He  was  strong  aa 
the  waters  of  Lora.  His  followers  were  the  roar  of  a 
thousand  streams.  They  took  the  king  of  Lochlin  in 
war ;  they  restored  him  to  his  ship.  His  big  heart 
swelled  with  pride  ;  the  death  of  the  youth  was  dark  in 
his  soul.  For  none  ever  but  Fingal,  had  overcome  the 
strength  of  the  mighty  Starno.  He  sat  in  the  hall  of 
his  shells  in  Lochlin's  woody  land.  He  called  the 
gray-haired  Snivan,  that  often  sung  round  the  circle* 
of  Loda  ;  when  the  stone  of  power  heard  his  voice,  and 
battle  turned  in  the  field  of  the  valiant ! 

"  '  Go,  gray-haired  Snivan,'  Starno  said  :  '  go  to 
Ardven's  sea-surrounded  rocks.  Tell  to  the  king  of 
Selma ;  he  the  fairest  among  his  thousands ;  tell  him 
I  give  to  him  my  daughter,  the  loveliest  maid  that  ever 
heaved  a  breast  of  snow.  Her  arms  are  white  as  the 
foam  of  my  waves.  Her  soul  is  generous  and  mild. 
Let  him  come  with  his  bravest  heroes  to  the  daughter 
of  the  secret  hall !'  Snivan  came  to  Selma's  hall :  fair- 
haired  Fingal  attended  his  steps.  His  kindled  soul 
flew  to  the  maid,  as  he  bounded  on  the  waves  of  the 
north.  '  Welcome,'  said  the  dark-brown  Starno,  'wel- 
come, king  of  rocky  Morven !  welcome  his  heroes  of 
might,  sons  of  the  distant  isle !  Three  days  within  my 
halls  shall  we  feast ;  three  days  pursue  my  boars ; 
that  your  fame  may  reach  the  maid  who  dwells  in  the 
secret  hall.' 

*  This  passage  most  certainly  alludes  to  the  religion  of  Lochlin. 
and  "  the  stone  of  power,"  here  mentioned,  is  the  image  of  one  ol 
Ihe  deities  of  Scandinavia. 


320  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

"  Starno  designed  their  death.  He  gave  the  feast 
of  shells.  Fingal,  who  doubted  the  foe,  kept  on  his 
arms  of  steel.  The  sons  of  death  were  afraid :  they 
fled  from  the  eyes  of  the  king.  The  voice  of  sprightly 
mirth  arose.  The  trembling  harps  of  joy  were  strung. 
Bards  sung  the  battles  of  heroes  ;  they  sung  the  heav- 
ing breast  of  love.  Ullin,  Fingal's  bard,  was  there : 
the  sweet  voice  of  resounding  Cona.  He  praised  the 
daughter  of  Lochlin ;  and  Morven's*  high-descend- 
ed chief.  The  daughter  of  Lochlin  overheard.  She 
left  the  hall  of  her  secret  sigh !  She  came  in  all  hei 
beauty,  like  the  moon  from  the  cloud  of  the  east. 
Loveliness  was  round  her  as  light.  Her  steps  were 
the  music  of  songs.  She  saw  the  youth  and  loved  him. 
He  was  the  stolen  sigh  of  her  soul.  Her  blue  eyes 
rolled  on  him  in  secret :  she  blessed  the  chief  of  re- 
sounding Morven. 

"  The  third  day,  with  all  its  beams,  shone  bright  on 
the  wood  of  boars.  Forth  moved  the  dark-browed 
Starno ;  and  Fingal,  king  of  shields.  Half  the  day 
they  spent  in  the  chase ;  the  spear  of  Selma  was  red 
in  blood.  It  was  then  the  daughter  of  Starno,  with  blue 
eyes  rolling  in  tears ;  it  was  then  she  came  with  her 
voice  of  love,  and  spoke  to  the  king  of  Morven.  '  Fin- 
gal, high-descended  chief,  trust  not  Starno's  heart  of 
pride.  Within  that  wood  he  has  placed  his  chiefs. 
Beware  of  the  wood  of  death.  But  remember,  son  ol 
the  isle,  remember  Agandecca ;  save  me  from  the 
wrath  of  my  father,  king  of  the  windy  Morven  !' 

"  The  youth  with  unconcern  went  on ;  his  heroes 
by  his  side.  The  sons  of  death  fell  by  his  hand  ;  and 
Gormal  echoed  around  !  Before  the  halls  of  Starno  the 
sons  of  ilie  chase  convened.  The  king's  dark  brows 

*  All  the  northwest  coast  of  Scotland  probably  went,  of  old.  un- 
der the  name  of  Morven,  which  signifies  a  ridge  of  very  h'^gh  nillfl 


FINGAI  321 

were  like  clouds;  his  eyes  like  meteors  of  night. 
'Bring  hither,'  he  said,  'Agandeccato  her  lovely  king 
of  Moi  ven  !  His  hand  is  stained  with  the  blood  of  my 
people  ;  her  words  have  not  been  in  vain  !'  She  came 
with  the  red  eye  of  tears.  She  came  with  loosely 
flowing  locks.  Her  white  breast  heaved  with  broken 
sighs,  like  the  foam  of  the  streamy  Lubar.  Starno 
pierced  her  side  with  steel.  She  fell,  like  a  wreath  of 
snow,  which  slides  from  the  rocks  of  Ronan,  when  the 
woods  are  still,  and  echo  deepens  .n  the  vale  !  Then 
Fingal  eyed  his  valiant  chiefs  :  his  valiant  chiefs  took 
arms !  The  gloom  of  battle  roared :  Lochlin  fled  or 
died.  Pale  in  his  bounding  ship  he  closed  the  maid 
of  the  softest  soul.  Her  tomb  ascends  on  Ardven ;  the 
sea  roars  round  her  narrow  dwelling." 

"  Blessed  be  her  soul,"  said  Cuthullin  ;  "  blessed  be 
the  mouth  of  the  song  !  Strong  was  the  youth  of  Fingal ; 
strong  is  his  arm  of  age.  Lochlin  shall  fall  again  be- 
fore the  king  of  echoing  Morven.  Show  thy  face  from 
a  cloud,  O  moon !  light  his  white  sails  on  the  wave : 
and  if  any  strong  spirit  of  heaven  sits  on  that  low-hung 
cloud ;  turn  his  dark  ships  from  the  rock,  thou  rider 
of  the  storm !" 

Such  were  the  words  of  Cuthullin  at  the  sound  of 
the  mountain  stream  ;  when  Calmar  ascended  the  hill, 
tho  wounded  son  of  Matha.  From  the  field  he  came 
in  his  blood.  He  leaned  on  his  bending  spear.  Feeble 
is  the  arm  of  battle !  but  strong  the  soul  of  the  hero ! 
"  Welcome  !  O  son  of  Matha,"  said  Connal,  "  welcome 
art  thou  to  thy  friends  !  Why  bursts  that  broken  sigh 
from  the  breast  of  him  who  never  feared  before  ?" 
"  And  never,  Connal,  will  he  fear,  chief  of  the  pointed 
steel !  My  soul  brightens  in  danger :  in  the  noise  of 
arms  I  am  of  the  race  of  battle.  My  fathers  never 
feared. 

"Cormar  was  the  first  of  my  race.     He  sported 


822  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAX. 

through  the  storms  of  waves.  His  black  skiff  bounded 
on  ocean ;  he  travelled  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  A 
spirit  once  embroiled  the  night.  Seas  swell  and  rocks 
resound.  Winds  drive  along  the  clouds.  The  light- 
ning  flies  on  wings  of  fire.  He  feared,  and  came  to 
land,  then  blushed  that  he  feared  at  all.  He  rushed 
again  among  the  waves,  to  find  the  son  of  the  wind. 
Three  youths  guide  the  bounding  bark  :  he  stood  with 
sword  unsheathed.  When  the  low-hung  vapor  passed, 
he  took  it  by  the  curling  head.  He  searched  its  dark 
womb  with  his  steel.  The  son  of  the  wind  forsook  the 
air.  The  moon  and  the  stars  returned !  Such  was  the 
boldness  of  my  race.  Calmar  is  like  his  fathers.  Dan- 
ger flies  from  the  lifted  sword.  They  best  succeed 
who  dare! 

"  But  now,  ye  sons  of  green  Erin,  retire  from  Lena's 
bloody  heath.  Collect  the  sad  remnant  of  our  friends, 
and  join  the  sword  of  Fingal.  1  heard  the  sound  of 
Lochlin's  advancing  arms :  Calmar  will  remain  and 
fight.  My  voice  shall  be  such,  my  friends,  as  if  thou- 
sands were  behind  me.  But,  son  of  Semo,  remember 
me.  Remember  Calmar's  lifeless  corse.  When  Fin- 
gal  shall  have  wasted  the  field,  place  me  by  some  stone 
of  remembrance,  that  future  times  may  hear  my  fame ; 
that  the  mother  of  Calmar  may  rejoice  in  my  renown." 

"  No :  son  of  Matha,"  said  Cuthullin,  "  I  will  never 
leave  thee  here.  My  joy  is  in  an  unequal  fight :  my 
soul  increases  in  danger.  Connal,  and  Carril  of  other 
times,  carry  off  the  sad  sons  of  Erin.  When  the  battle 
is  over,  search  for  us  in  this  narrow  way.  For  near 
this  oak  we  shall  fall,  in  the  streams  of  tte  battle  of 
thousands !  O  Fithal's  son,  with  flying  speed  rush  over 
the  heath  of  Lena.  Tell  to  Fingal  that  Erin  is  fallet ! 
Bid  the  king  of  Morven  come.  O  let  him  come  like 
the  sun  in  a  storm,  to  lighten,  to  restore  the  isle  !" 

Morning  is  gray  on  Cromla.     The  sons  of  the  sea 


FINGAL.  323 

ascend.  Calmar  stood  forth  to  meet  them  in  the  pride 
of  his  kindling  soul.  But  pale  was  the  face  of  the 
chief.  He  leaned  on  his  father's  spear.  That  spear 
which  he  brought  from  Lara,  when  the  soul  of  his  mo- 
ther was  sad ;  the  soul  of  the  lonely  Alcletha,  waning 
in  the  sorrow  of  years.  But  slowly  now  the  hero  falls, 
like  a  tree  on  the  plain.  Dark  Cuthullin  stands  alone 
like  a  rock  in  a  sandy  vale.  The  sea  comes  with  its 
waves,  and  roars  on  its  hardened  sides.  Its  head  is 
covered  with  foam  ;  the  hills  are  echoing  round. 

Now  from  the  gray  mist  of  the  ocean  the  white- 
sailed  ships  of  Fingal  appear.  High  is  the  grove  of 
their  masts,  as  they  nod,  by  turns,  on  the  rolling  wave. 
Swaran  saw  them  from  the  hill.  He  returned  from  the 
sons  of  Erin.  As  ebbs  the  resounding  sea,  through 
the  hundred  isles  of  Inistore ;  so  loud,  so  vast,  so  im- 
mense, returned  the  sons  of  Lochlin  against  the  king. 
But  bending,  weeping,  sad,  and  slow,  and  dragging  his 
long  spear  behind,  Cuthullin  sunk  in  Cromla's  wood, 
and  mourned  his  fallen  friends.  He  feared  the  face 
of  Fingal,  who  was  wont  to  greet  him  from  the  fields 
of  renown ! 

"  How  many  lie  there  of  my  heroes !  the  chiefs  of 
Erin's  race  !  they  that  were  cheerful  in  the  hall,  when 
the  sound  of  the  shells  arose !  No  more  shall  I  find 
their  steps  in  the  heath !  No  more  shall  I  hear  theL 
voice  in  the  chase.  Pale,  silent,  low  on  bloody  beds, 
are  they  who  were  my  friends  !  O  spirits  of  the  lately 
dead,  meet  Cuthullin  on  his  heath  !  Speak  to  hirn  on 
the  winds,  when  the  rustling  tree  of  Tura's  cave  re- 
sounds. There,  far  remote,  I  shall  lie  unknown.  Nu 
bard  shall  hear  of  me.  No  gray  stone  shall  rise  to 
my  renown.  Mourn  me  with  the  dead,  O  Bragela ! 
departed  is  my  fame."  Such  were  the  words  of  Cu- 
diullin,  when  he  sunk  in  the  woods  of  Cromla ! 

Fingal;  tall  in  his  ship,  stretched  his  bright  lanco 


324  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

before  him.  Terrible  was  the  gleam  of  his  steel :  h 
was  like  the  green  meteor  of  death,  setting  in  the  heath 
of  Malmor,  when  the  traveller  is  alone,  and  the  broad 
moon  is  darkened  in  heaven. 

"  The  battle  is  past,"  said  the  king.  "  I  behold  the 
blood  of  my  friends.  Sad  is  the  heath  of  Lena  !  mourn, 
ful  the  oaks  of  Cromla !  The  hunters  have  fallen  in 
their  strength  :  the  son  of  Semo  is  no  more  !  Ryno  and 
Fillan,  my  sons,  sound  the  horn  of  Fingal.  Ascend 
that  hill  on  the  shore ;  call  the  children  of  the  foe. 
Call  them  from  the  grave  of  Lamderg,  the  chief  of 
other  times.  Be  your  voice  like  that  of  your  father, 
when  he  enters  the  battles  of  his  strength  !  I  wait  for 
the  mighty  stranger.  I  wait  on  Lena's  shore  for  Swa- 
ran.  Let  him  come  with  all  his  race  j  strong  in  battle 
are  the  friends  of  the  dead  !" 

Fair  Ryno  as  lightning  gleamed  along  :  dark  Fillan 
rushed  like  the  shade  of  autumn.  On  Lena's  heath 
their  voice  is  heard.  The  sons  of  ocean  heard  the 
horn  of  Fingal.  As  the  roaring  eddy  of  ocean  return- 
ing from  the  kingdom  of  snows  :  so  strong,  so  dark,  so 
sudden,  came  down  the  sons  of  Lochlin.  The  king  in 
their  front  appears,  in  the  dismal  pride  of  his  arms ! 
Wrath  burns  on  his  dark-brown  face  ;  his  eyes  roll  in 
the  fire  of  his  valor.  Fingal  beheld  the  son  of  Starno  : 
he  remembered  Agandecca.  For  S\varan  with  tears 
of  youth  had  mourned  his  white-bosomed  sister.  He 
sent  Ullin  of  songs  to  bid  him  to  the  feast  of  shells : 
for  pleasant  on  Fingal's  soul  returned  the  memory  of 
the  first  of  his  loves  ! 

Ullin  came  with  aged  steps,  and  spoke  to  Starno's 
son.  "  O  thou  that  dwellest  afar,  surrounded,  like  a 
rock,  with  thy  waves !  come  to  the  feast  of  the  king, 
and  pass  the  day  in  rest.  To-morrow  let  us  fight,  O 
Swaran,  and  break  the  echoing  shields." — "  To-day," 
said  Starno's  wrathful  son,  "we  break  the  echoing 


FING-ftT.  325 

shields :  to-morrow  my  feast  shall  be  spread ;  but  Fin. 
gal  shall  lie  on  earth." — "  To-morrow  let  his  feast  be 
spread,"  said  Fingal,  with  a  smile.  "  To-day,  O  my 
sons !  we  shall  break  the  echoing  shields.  Ossian,  stand 
thou  near  my  arm.  Gaul,  lift  thy  terrible  sword. 
Fergus,  bend  thy  crooked  yew.  Throw,  Fillan,  thy 
lance  through  heaven.  Lift  your  shields,  like  the 
darkened  moon.  Be  your  spears  the  meteors  of  death. 
Follow  me  in  the  path  of  my  fame.  Equal  my  deeds 
in  battle." 

As  a  hundred  winds  on  Morven;  as  the  streams  of 
a  hundred  hills  ;  as  clouds  fly  successive  over  heaven ; 
as  the  dark  ocean  assails  the  shore  of  the  desert :  so 
roaring,  so  vast,  so  terrible,  the  armies  mixed  on  Lena's 
echoing  heath.  The  groans  of  the  people  spread  over 
the  hills :  it  was  like  the  thunder  of  night,  when  the 
cloud  bursts  on  Cona ;  and  a  thousand  ghosts  shriek 
at  once  on  the  hollow  wind.  Fingal  rushed  on  in  his 
strength,  terrible  as  the  spirit  of  Trenmor ;  when  in  a 
whirlwind  he  comes  to  Morven,  to  see  the  children  of 
his  pride.  The  oaks  resound  on  their  mountains,  and 
the  rocks  fall  down  before  him.  Dimly  seen  as 
lightens  the  night,  he  strides  largely  from  hill  to  hill. 
Bloody  was  the  hand  of  my  father,  when  he  whirled 
the  gleam  of  his  sword.  He  remembers  the  battles  of 
his  youth.  The  field  is  wasted  in  its  course ! 

Ryno  went  on  like  a  pillar  of  fire.  Dark  is  the  brow 
of  Gaul.  Fergus  rushed  forward  with  feet  of  wind ; 
Fillan  like  the  mist  of  the  hill.  Ossian,  like  a  rock, 
came  down.  I  exulted  in  the  strength  of  the  king. 
Many  were  the  deaths  of  my  arm !  dismal  the  gleam 
of  my  sword  !  My  locks  were  not  then  so  gray ;  nor 
trembled  my  hands  with  age.  My  eyes  were  not  closed 
in  darkness  ;  my  feet  failed  not  in  the  race  ! 

Who  can  relate  the  deaths  of  the  people  ?  who  the 
deeds  of  mighty  heroes  ?  when  Fingal,  burning  in  his 
28 


326  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAW. 

wrath,  consumed  the  sons  of  Lochlin  ?  Groans  swelled 
on  groans  from  hill  to  hill,  till  night  had  covered  all. 
Pale,  staring  like  a  herd  of  deer,  the  sons  of  Lochlin 
convene  on  Lena.  We  sat  and  heard  the  sprightly 
harp,  at  Lubar's  gentle  stream.  Fingal  himself  was 
next  to  the  foe.  He  listened  to  the  tales  of  his  bards. 
His  godlike  race  were  in  the  song,  the  chiefs  of  other 
times.  Attentive,  leaning  on  his  shield,  the  king  of 
Morven  sat.  The  wind  whistled  through  his  locks ; 
his  thoughts  are  of  the  days  of  other  years.  Near  him, 
on  his  bending  spear,  my  young,  my  valiant  Oscar 
stood.  He  admired  the  king  of  Morven :  his  deeds 
were  swelling  in  his  soul. 

"  Son  of  my  son,"  began  the  king,  "  O  Oscar,  pride 
of  youth  :  I  saw  the  shining  of  the  sword.  I  gloried 
in  my  race.  Pursue  the  fame  of  our  fathers  ;  be  thou 
what  they  have  been,  when  Trenmor  lived,  the  first  of 
men,  and  Trathal,  the  father  of  heroes !  They  fought 
the  battle  in  their  youth.  They  are  the  song  of  bards. 
O  Oscar  !  bend  the  strong  in  arm  ;  but  spare  the  feeble 
hand.  Be  thou  a  stream  of  many  tides  against  the  foes 
of  thy  people ;  but  like  the  gale,  that  moves  the  grass, 
to  those  who  ask  thine  aid.  So  Trenmor  lived ;  such 
Trathal  was ;  and  such  has  Fingal  been.  My  arm 
was  the  support  of  the  injured  ;  the  weak  rested  behind 
the  lightning  of  my  steel. 

"  Oscar !  I  was  young,  like  thee,  when  lovely  Fain- 
asollis  came  :  that  sunbeam  !  that  mild  light  of  love ' 
the  daughter  of  Craca's*  king.  I  then  returned  from 
Cona's  heath,  and  few  were  in  my  train.  A  white- 
sailed  boat  appeared  far  off;  we  saw  it  like  a  mist,  that 
rode  on  ocean's  wind.  It  soon  approached.  We  saw 
the  fair.  Her  white  breast  heaved  with  sighs.  The 

*  What  the  Craca  here  mentioned  was,  it  is  not,  at  this  distance 
of  time,  easy  to  determine.  The  most  probable  opinion  is,  that  it 
was  one  of  the  Shetland  isles. 


FINGAL. 

wind  was  in  her  loose  dark  hair ;  her  rosy  cheek  had 
tears.  *  Daughter  of  beauty,'  calm  I  said,  '  what  sigh  is 
in  thy  breast  ?  Can  I,  young  as  I  am,  defend  thee, 
daughter  of  the  sea  1  My  sword  is  not  unmatched  in 
war,  but  dauntless  is  my  heart.' 

" '  To  thee  I  fly,'  with  sighs  she  said,  c  O  prince  of 
mighty  men!  To  thee  I  fly,  chief  of  the  generous 
shells,  supporter  of  the  feeble  hand!  The  king  of 
Craca's  echoing  isle  owned  me  the  sunbeam  of  his 
race.  Cromla's  hills  have  heard  the  sighs  of  love  for 
unhappy  Fainasollis  !  Sora's  chief  beheld  me  fair ;  he 
loved  the  daughter  of  Craca.  His  sword  is  a  beam  of 
light  upon  the  warrior's  side.  But  dark  is  his  brow  ; 
and  tempests  are  in  his  soul.  I  shun  him  on  the  roar- 
ing sea  ;  but  Sora's  chief  pursues.' 

" '  Rest  thou,'  I  said, '  behind  my  shield !  rest  in  peace, 
thou  beam  of  light !  The  gloomy  chief  of  Sora  will 
fly,  if  Fingal's  arm  is  like  his  soul.  In  some  lone  cave 
I  might  conceal  thee,  daughter  of  the  sea.  But  Fingal 
never  flies.  Where  the  danger  threatens,  I  rejoice  in 
the  storm  of  spears.'  I  saw  the  tears  upon  her  cheek. 
I  pitied  Craca's  fair.  Now,  like  a  dreadful  wave  afar, 
appeared  the  ship  of  stormy  Borbar.  His  masts  high- 
bended  over  the  sea  behind  their  sheets  of  snow.  White 
roll  the  waters  on  either  side.  The  strength  of  ocean 
sounds.  '  Come  thou,'  I  said,  '  from  the  roar  of  ocean, 
thou  rider  of  the  storm.  Partake  the  feast  within  my 
hall.  It  is  the  house  of  strangers.' 

"  The  maid  stood  trembling  by  my  side.  He  drew 
the  bow.  She  fell.  '  Unerring  is  thy  hand,'  I  said, 
'  but  feeble  was  the  foe.'  We  fought,  nor  weak  the 
strife  of  death.  He  sunk  beneath  my  sword.  We 
laid  them  in  two  tombs  of  stone ;  the  hapless  lovers  of 
youth  !  Such  have  I  been,  in  my  youth,  O  Oscar  !  be 
thou  like  the  age  of  Fingal.  Never  search  thou  far 
battle  ;  nor  shun  it  when  it  comes. 


328  THE    POEMS    OF    OSSIAJ*. 

"  Fillan  and  Oscar  of  the  dark-brown  hair  !  ye  that 
are  swift  in  the  race  !  fly  over  the  heath  in  my  pre- 
sence. View  the  sons  of  Lochlin.  Far  off  I  hear  the 
noise  of  their  feet,  like  distant  sounds  in  woods.  Go : 
that  they  may  not  fly  from  my  sword,  along  the  waves 
of  the  north.  For  many  chiefs  of  Erin's  race  lie  here 
on  the  dark  bed  of  death.  The  children  of  war  are 
low  ;  the  sons  of  echoing  Cromla." 

The  heroes  flew  like  two  dark  clouds:  two  dark 
clouds  that  are  the  chariots  of  ghosts ;  when  air's  dark 
children  come  forth  to  frighten  hapless  men.  It  was 
then  that  Gaul,  the  son  of  Morni,  stood  like  a  rock  in 
night.  His  spear  is  glittering  to  the  stars ;  his  voice 
like  many  streams. 

"  Son  of  battle,"  cried  the  chief,  "  O  Fingal,  king 
of  shells !  let  the  bards  of  many  songs  sooth  Erin's 
friends  to  rest.  Fingal,  sheath  thou  thy  sword  of  death ; 
and  let  thy  people  fight.  We  wither  away  without  our 
fame  ;  our  king  is  the  only  breaker  of  shields  !  When 
morning  rises  on  our  hills,  behold  at  a  distance  our 
deeds.  Let  Lochlin  feel  the  sword  of  Moral's  son ; 
that  bards  may  sing  of  me.  Such  was  the  custom 
heretofore  of  Fingal's  noble  race.  Such  was  thine 
o\vn,  thou  king  of  swords,  in  battles  of  the  spear." 

"  O  son  of  Morni,"  Fingal  replied,  "  I  glory  in  thy 
fame.  Fight ;  but  my  spear  shall  be  near,  to  aid  thee 
in  the  midst  of  danger.  Raise,  raise  the  voice,  ye  sons 
of  song,  and  lull  me  into  rest.  Here  will  Fingal  lie, 
amidst  the  wind  of  night.  And  if  thou,  Agandecca, 
art  near,  among  the  children  of  thy  land  ;  if  thou  sittest 
on  a  blast  of  wind,  among  the  high-shrouded  masts  of 
Lochlin ;  come  to  my  dreams,  my  fair  one  !  Show 
thy  bright  face  to  my  soul." 

Many  a  voice  and  many  a  harp,  in  tuneful  sounds 
arose.  Of  Fingal  noble  deeds  they  sung ;  of  Fingal's 
noble  race :  and  sometimes,  on  the  lovely  sound  was 


FINGAL.  329 

beard  the  name  of  Ossian.  I  often  fought,  and  often 
won  in  battles  of  the  spear.  But  blind,  and  tearful, 
and  forlorn,  I  walk  with  little  men  !  O  Fingal,  with  thy 
race  of  war  I  now  behold  thee  not.  The  wild  roes 
feed  on  the  green  tomb  of  the  mighty  king  of  Morven ! 
Blest  be  thy  soul,  thou  king  of  swords,  thou  most  re 
nowned  on  the  hills  of  Cona ! 


BOOK  IV. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  action  of  the  poem  being  suspended  by  night,  Ossian  takes  tfa« 
opportunity  to  relate  his  own  actions  at  the  lake  of  Lego,  and 
his  courtship  of  Everallin,  who  was  the  mother  of  Oscar,  and 
had  died  some  time  before  the  expedition  of  Fingal  into  Ireland. 
Her  ghost  appears  to  him,  and  tells  him  that  Oscar,  who  had 
been  sent,  the  beginning  of  the  night,  to  observe  the  enemy,  was 
engaged  with  an  advanced  party,  and  almost  overpowered.  Os- 
sian relieves  his  son ;  and  an  alarm  is  given  to  Fingal  of  the  ap- 
proach of  Swaran.  The  king  rises,  calls  his  army  together,  and. 
as  he  had  promised  the  preceding  night,  devolves  the  command 
on  Gaul  the  son  of  Morni,  while  he  nimself,  after  charging  his 
sons  to  behave  gallantly  and  defend  his  people,  retires  to  a  hill, 
from  whence  he  could  have  a  view  of  the  battle.  The  battle 
joins ;  the  poet  relates  Oscar's  great  actions.  But  when  Oscar. 
in  conjunction  with  his  father,  conquered  in  one  wing,  Gaul, 
who  was  attacked  by  Swaran  in  person,  was  on  the  point  of  re- 
treating in  the  other.  Fingal  sends  Ullin  his  bard  to  encourage 
them  with  a  war  song,  but  notwithstanding  Swaran  prevails ;  and 
Gaul  and  his  army  are  obliged  to  give  way.  Fingal  descending 
from  the  hill,  rallies  them  again  ;  Swaran  desists  from  the  pursuit, 
possesses  himself  of  a  rising  ground,  restores  the  ranks,  and  waits 
the  approach  of  Fingal.  The  king,  having  encouraged  his  men, 
gives  the  necessary  orders,  and  renews  the  battle.  Cuthullin, 
who,  with  his  friend  Cpnnal,  and  Carril  his  bard,  had  retired  to 
the  cave  of  Tura,  hearing  the  noise,  came  to  the  brow  of  the 
hill,  which  overlooked  the  field  of  battle,  where  he  saw  Fingal 
engaged  with  the  enemy.  He,  being  hindered  by  Connal  from 
joining  Fingal,  who  was  himself  upon  the  point  of  obtaining  a 
complete  victory,  sends  Carril  to  congratulate  that  hero  on  nia 
success. 

WHO  comes  with  her  songs  from  the  hill,  like  the 
bow  of  the  showery  Lena  ?     Tt  is  the  maid  of  the  voice 
28* 


330  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAlf. 

of  love  !  the  white-armed  daughter  of  Toscar  !  Often 
hast  thou  heard  my  song ;  often  given  the  tear  of 
beauty.  Dost  thou  come  to  the  wars  of  thy  people  ? 
to  hear  the  actions  of  Oscar  ?  When  shall  I  cease  to 
mourn,  by  the  streams  of  resounding  Cona?  My  years 
have  passed  away  hi  battle.  My  age  is  darkened  with 
grief! 

"  Daughter  of  the  hand  of  snow,  I  was  not  so  mourn- 
ful and  blind ;  I  was  not  so  dark  and  forlorn,  when 
Everallin  loved  me !  Everallin  with  the  dark-brown 
hair,  the  white-bosomed  daughter  of  Branno.  A  thou- 
sand heroes  sought  the  maid,  she  refused  her  love  to  a 
thousand.  The  sons  of  the  sword  were  despised :  for 
graceful  in  her  eyes  was  Ossian.  I  went,  in  suit  of  the 
maid,  to  Lego's  sable  surge.  Twelve  of  my  people 
were  there,  the  sons  of  streamy  Morven  !  We  came 
to  Branno,  friend  of  strangers !  Branno  of  the  sounding 
mail !  '  From  whence,'  he  said,  '  are  the  arms  of  steel  ? 
Not  easy  to  win  is  the  maid,  who  has  denied  the  blue- 
eyed  sons  of  Erin.  But  blest  be  thou,  O  son  of  Fin- 
gal  !  Happy  is  the  maid  that  waits  thee !  Though 
twelve  daughters  of  beauty  were  mine,  thine  were  the 
choice,  thou  son  of  fame  !' 

"  He  opened  the  hall  of  the  maid,  the  dark-haired 
Everallin.  Joy  kindled  in  our  manly  breasts.  We 
blest  the  maid  of  Branno.  Above  us  on  the  hill  ap- 
peared the  people  of  stately  Cormac.  Eight  were  the 
heroes  of  the  chief.  The  heath  flamed  wide  with  their 
arms.  There  Colla ;  there  Durra  of  wounds ;  there 
mighty  Toscar,  and  Tago  ;  there  Fresta  the  victorious 
stood  ;  Dairo  of  the  happy  deeds  ;  Dala  the  battle's  bul- 
wark in  the  narrow  way !  The  sword  flamed  in  the 
hand  of  Cormac.  Graceful  was  the  look  of  the  hero ! 
Eight  were  the  heroes  of  Ossian.  Ullin,  stormy  son 
of  war.  Mullo  of  the  generous  deeds.  The  noble, 
the  graceful  Scelacha.  Oglan.  and  Cerdan  the  wrath- 


FINGAL.  331 

fill.  Dumariccan's  brows  of  death.  And  why  should 
Ogar  be  the  last ;  so  wide-renowned  on  the  hills  of 
Ardven  ? 

"  Ogar  met  Dala  the  strong  face  to  face,  on  the  field 
of  heroes.  The  battle  of  the  chiefs  was  like  wind,  on 
ocean's  foamy  waves.  The  dagger  is  remembered  by 
Ogar ;  the  weapon  which  he  loved.  Nine  times  he 
drowned  it  in  Dala's  side.  The  stormy  battle  turned. 
Three  times  I  broke  on  Cormac's  shield :  three  times 
he  broke  his  spear.  But,  unhappy  youth  of  love !  I 
cut  his  head  away.  Five  times  I  shook  it  by  the  lock. 
The  friends  of  Cormac  fled.  Whoever  would  have 
told  me,  lovely  maid,  when  then  I  strove  in  battle,  that 
blind,  forsaken,  and  forlorn,  I  now  should  pass  the 
night ;  firm  ought  his  mail  to  have  been ;  unmatched 
his  arm  in  war." 

On  Lena's  gloomy  heath  the  voice  of  music  died 
away.  The  inconstant  blast  blew  hard.  The  high 
oak  shook  its  leaves  around.  Of  Everallin  were  my 
thoughts,  when  in  all  the  light  of  beauty  she  came  ; 
her  blue  eyes  rolling  in  tears.  She  stood  on  a  cloud 
before  my  sight,  and  spoke  with  feeble  voice  !  "  Rise, 
Ossian,  rise,  and  save  my  son  ;  save  Oscar,  prince  of 
men.  Near  the  red  oak  of  Luba's  stream  he  fights 
with  Lochlin's  sons."  She  sunk  into  her  cloud  again. 
I  covered  me  with  steel.  My  spear  supported  my 
steps ;  my  rattling  armor  rung.  I  hummed,  as  I  was 
wont  in  danger,  the  songs  of  heroes  of  old.  Like  dis- 
tant thunder  Lochlin  heard.  They  fled;  my  son  pursued. 

I  called  him  like  a  distant  stream.  "  Oscar,  return 
over  Lena.  No  further  pursue  the  foe,"  I  said,  "  though 
Ossian  is  behind  thee."  He  came !  and  pleasant  to 
my  ear  was  Oscar's  sounding  steel.  "  Why  didst  thou 
stop  my  hand,"  he  said,  "  till  death  had  covered  all  ? 
For  dark  and  dreadful  by  the  stream  they  met  thy  son 
and  Fillan.  They  watched  the  terrors  of  the  night. 


332  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AW. 

Our  swords  have  conquered  some.  But  as  the  winds 
of  night  pour  the  ocean  over  the  white  sands  of  Mora, 
so  dark  advance  the  sons  of  Lochlin,  over  Lena's  rus- 
tling heat !  The  ghosts  of  night  shriek  afar :  I  have 
seen  the  meteors  of  death.  Let  me  awake  the  king 
of  Morven,  he  that  smiles  in  danger !  He  that  is  like 
the  sun  of  heaven,  rising  in  a  storm !" 

Fingal  had  started  from  a  dream,  and  leaned  on 
Trenmor's  shield  !  the  dark-brown  shield  of  his  fathers, 
which  they  had  lifted  of  old  in  war.  The  hero  had 
seen,  in  his  rest,  the  mournful  form  of  Agandecca. 
She  came  from  the  way  of  the  ocean.  She  slowly, 
lonely,  moved  over  Lena.  Her  face  was  pale,  like  the 
mist  of  Cromla.  Dark  were  the  tears  of  her  cheek. 
She  often  raised  her  dim  hand  from  her  robe,  her  robe 
which  was  of  the  clouds  of  the  desert :  she  raised  her 
dim  hand  over  Fingal,  and  turned  away  silent  eyes  ! 
•''  Why  weeps  the  daughter  of  Starno  ?"  said  Fingal 
with  a  sigh  ;  "  why  is  thy  face  so  pale,  fair  wanderer 
of  the  clouds  ?"  She  departed  on  the  wind  of  Lena, 
She  left  him  in  the  midst  of  the  night.  She  mourned 
the  sons  of  her  people,  that  were  to  fall  by  the  hand 
of  Fingal. 

The  hero  started  from  rest.  Still  he  beheld  her 
in  his  soul.  The  sound  of  Oscar's  steps  approach- 
ed. The  king  saw  the  gray  shield  on  his  side  :  foi 
the  faint  beam  of  the  morning  came  over  the  waters 
of  Ullin.  "  What  do  the  foes  in  their  fear  ?"  said  the 
rising  king  of  Morven  :  "  or  fly  they  through  ocean's 
foam,  or  wait  they  the  battle  of  steel  ?  But  why  should 
Fingal  ask  ?  I  hear  their  voice  on  the  early  wind  !  Fly 
over  Lena's  heath  :  O  Oscar,  awake  our  friends  !" 

The  king  stood  by  the  stone  of  Lubar.  Thrice  he 
reared  his  terrible  voice.  The  deer  started  from  the 
fountains  of  Cromla.  The  rocks  shook  on  all  their 
hills.  Like  the  noise  of  a  hundred  mountain-streams, 


FINGAL. 

that  burst,  and  roar,  and  foam  !  like  the  clouds,  that 
gather  to  a  tempest  on  the  blue  face  of  the  sky  !  so 
met  the  sons  of  the  desert,  round  the  terrible  voice  of 
Fingal.  Pleasant  was  the  voice  of  the  king  of  Mor- 
ven  to  the  warriors  of  his  land.  Often  had  he  led 
them  to  battle  ;  often  returned  with  the  spoils  of  the 
foe. 

"  Come  to  battle,"  said  the  king,  "  ye  children  of 
echoing  Selma  !  Come  to  the  d»>ath  of  thousands  ! 
Comhal's  son  will  see  the  fight.  My  sword  shall  wave 
on  the  hill,  the  defence  of  my  people  in  war.  But 
never  may  you  need  it,  warriors ;  while  the  son  of 
Morni  fights,  the  chief  of  mighty  men  !  He  shall  lead 
my  battle,  that  his  fame  may  rise  in  song  !  O  ye  ghosts 
of  heroes  dead  !  ye  riders  of  the  storm  of  Cromla  !  re- 
ceive my  falling  people  with  joy,  and  bear  them  to  your 
hills.  And  may  the  blast  of  Lena  carry  them  over  my 
seas,  that  they  may  come  to  my  silent  dreams,  and  de- 
light my  soul  in  rest.  Fillan  and  Oscar  of  the  dark- 
brown  hair  !  fair  Ryno,  with  the  pointed  steel !  ad- 
vance with  valor  to  the  fight.  Behold  the  son  of  Morni ! 
Let  your  swords  be  like  his  in  strife  :  behold  the  deeds 
of  his  hands.  Protect  the  friends  of  your  father. 
Remember  the  chiefs  of  old.  My  children,  I  will  see 
you  yet,  though  here  you  should  fall  in  Erin.  Soon 
shall  our  cold  pale  ghosts  meet  in  a  cloud,  on  Cona's 
eddying  winds." 

Now  like  a  dark  and  stormy  cloud,  edged  round 
with  the  red  lightning  of  heaven,  flying  westward  from 
the  morning's  beam,  the  king  of  Selma  removed.  Ter- 
rible is  the  light  of  his  armor  ;  two  spears  are  in  his 
hand.  His  gray  hair  falls  on  the  wind.  He  often 
looks  back  on  the  war.  Three  bards  attend  the  son 
of  fame,  to  bear  his  words  to  the  chiefs.  High  on 
Cromla's  side  he  sat,  waving  the  lightning  of  his  sword, 
and  as  he  waved  we  moved. 


334  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

Joy  rises  in  Oscar's  face.  His  cheek  is  red.  His 
eye  sheds  tears.  The  sword  is  a  beam  of  fire  in  his 
hand.  He  came,  and  smiling,  spoke  to  Ossian.  "  O 
ruler  of  the  fight  of  steel !  my  father,  hear  thy  son ! 
Retire  with  Morven's  mighty  chief.  Give  me  the  fame 
of  Ossian.  If  here  I  fall,  O  chief,  remember  that  breast 
of  snow,  the  lonely  sunbeam  of  my  love,  the  white- 
handed  daughter  of  Toscar !  For,  with  red  cheek 
from  the  rock,  bending  over  the  stream,  her  soft  hair 
flies  about  her  bosom,  as  she  pours  the  sigh  for  Oscar. 
Tell  her  I  am  on  my  hills,  a  lightly-bounding  son  of 
the  wind ;  tell  her,  that  in  a  cloud  I  may  meet  the 
lovely  maid  of  Toscar."  "  Raise,  Oscar,  rather  raise 
my  tomb.  I  will  not  yield  the  war  to  thee.  The  first  and 
bloodiest  in  the  strife,  my  arm  shall  teach  thee  how  to 
fight.  But  remember,  my  son,  to  place  this  sword, 
this  bow,  the  horn  of  my  deer,  within  that  dark  and 
narrow  house,  whose  mark  is  one  gray  stene  !  Oscar, 
I  have  no  love  to  leave  to  the  care  of  my  son.  Ever- 
allin  is  no  more,  the  lovely  daughter  of  Branno  !" 

Such  were  our  words,  when  Gaul's  loud  voice  came 
growing  on  the  wind.  He  waved  on  high  the  sword 
of  his  father.  We  rushed  to  death  and  wounds.  As 
waves,  white  bubbling  over  the  deep,  come  swelling, 
roaring  on  ;  as  rocks  of  ooze  meet  roaring  waves  ;  so 
foes  attacked  and  fought.  Man  met  with  man,  and 
steel  with  steel.  Shields  sound  and  warriors  fall.  As 
a  hundred  hammers  on  the  red  son  of  the  furnace,  so 
rose,  so  rung  their  swords  ! 

Gaul  rushed  on,  like  a  whirlwind  in  Ardven.  The 
destruction  of  heroes  is  on  his  sword.  Swaran  was 
like  the  fire  of  the  desert  in  the  echoing  heath  of  Gor- 
mal !  How  can  I  give  to  the  song  the  death  of  many 
spears  ?  My  sword  rose  high,  and  flamed  in  the  strife 
of  blood.  Oscar,  terrible  wert  thou,  my  best,  my 
greatest  son  !  I  rejoiced  in  my  secret  soul,  when  his 


F1NGAL  335 

sword  flamed  over  the  slain.  They  fled  amain  through 
Lena's  heath.  We  pursued  and  slew.  As  stones  that 
bound  from  rock  to  rock  ;  as  axes  in  echoing  woods  ; 
as  thunder  rolls  from  hill  to  hill,  in  dismal  broken 
peals  ;  so  blow  succeeded  to  blow,  and  death  to  death, 
from  the  hand  of  Oscar  and  mine. 

But  Swaran  closed  round  Morni's  son,  as  the  strength 
of  the  tide  of  Inistore.  The  king  half  rose  from  his 
hill  at  the  sight.  He  half-assumed  the  spear.  "  Go, 
Ullin,  go,  my  aged  bard,"  began  the  king  of  Morven. 
"  Remind  the  mighty  Gaul  of  war.  Remind  him  of 
his  fathers.  Support  the  yielding  fight  with  song ;  for 
song  enlivens  war."  Tall  Ullin  went,  with  step  of 
age,  and  spoke  to  the  king  of  swords.  "  Son  of  the 
chief  of  generous  steeds!  high-bounding  king  of  spears! 
Strong  arm  in  every  perilous  toil !  Hard  heart  that 
never  yields  !  Chief  of  the  pointed  arms  of  death  !  Cut 
down  the  foe  ;  let  no  white  sail  bound  round  dark 
Inistore.  Be  thine  arm  like  thunder,  thine  eyes  like 
fire,  thy  heart  of  solid  rock.  Whirl  round  thy  sword 
as  a  meteor  at  night :  lift  thy  shield  like  the  flame  of 
death.  Son  of  the  chief  of  generous  steeds,  cut  down 
the  foe  !  Destroy  !"  The  hero's  heart  beat  high.  But 
Swaran  came  with  battle.  He  cleft  the  shield  of  Gaul 
in  twain.  The  sons  of  Selma  fled. 

Fingal  at  once  arose  in  arms.  Thrice  he  reared 
his  dreadful  voice.  Cromla  answered  around.  The 
sons  of  the  desert  stood  still.  They  bent  their  blush- 
ing faces  to  earth,  ashamed  at  the  presence  of  the  king. 
He  came  like  a  cloud  of  rain  in  the  day  of  the  sun, 
when  slow  it  rolls  on  the  hill,  and  fields  expect  the 
shower.  Silence  attends  its  slow  progress  aloft ;  but 
the  tempest  is  soon  to  rise.  Swaran  beheld  the  terri- 
ble king  of  Morven.  He  stopped  in  the  midst  of  his 
course.  Dark  he  leaned  on  his  spear,  rolling  his  red 
eyes  around.  Silent  and  tall  he  seemed  as  an  oak  on 


336  THE  POEMS  OF  O-aiAN. 

the  banks  of  Lubar,  which  had  its  branches  blasted  of 
old  by  the  lightning  of  heaven.  It  bends  over  the 
stream  :  the  gray  moss  whistles  in  the  wind  :  so  stood 
the  king.  Then  slowly  he  retired  to  the  rising  heath 
of  Lena.  His  thousands  pour  round  the  hero.  Dark- 
ness gathers  on  the  hill ! 

Fingal,  like  a  beam  of  heaven,  shone  in  the  midst 
of  his  people.  His  heroes  gather  around  him.  He 
sends  forth  the  voice  of  his  power.  "  Raise  my  stand- 
ards on  high  ;  spread  them  on  Lena's  wind,  like  the 
flames  of  a  hundred  hills !  Let  them  sound  on  the 
wind  of  Erin,  and  remind  us  of  the  fight.  Ye  sons  of 
the  roaring  streams,  that  pour  from  a  thousand  hills  be 
near  the  king  of  Morven  !  attend  to  the  words  of  his 
power  !  Gaul,  strongest  arm  of  death  !  O  Oscar,  of 
the  future  fights !  Connal,  son  of  the  blue  shields  of 
Sora  !  Dermid,  of  the  dark-brown  hair  !  Ossian,  king 
of  many  songs,  be  near  your  father's  arm  !"  We 
reared  the  sunbeam*  of  battle  ;  the  standard  of  the 
king  !  Each  hero  exulted  with  joy,  as,  waving,  it  flew 
on  the  wind.  It  was  studded  with  gold  above,  as  the 
blue  wide  shell  of  the  nightly  sky.  Each  hero  had  his 
standard  too,  and  each  his  gloomy  men  ! 

"  Behold,"  said  the  king  of  generous  shells,  "  how 
Lochlin  divides  on  Lena  !  They  stand  like  broken 
clouds  on  a  hill,  or  a  half-consumed  grove  of  oaks, 
when  we  see  the  sky  through  its  branches,  and  the 
meteor  passing  behind  !  Let  every  chief  among  the 
friends  of  Fingal  take  a  dark  troop  of  those  that  frown 
so  high :  nor  let  a  son  of  the  echoing  groves  bound  on 
the  waves  of  Inistore  !"  • 

"  Mine,"  said  Gaul,  "  be  the  seven  chiefs  that  came 

*  Fingal's  standard  was  distinguished  by  the  name  of"  sunbeam :" 
probably  on  account  of  its  bright  color,  and  by  its  being  studded 
with  gold.  To  begin  a  battle  is  expressed,  in  old  composition,  bj 
"  lilling  of  the  sunbeam." 


FINGAL.  337 

from  Lano's  lake."  "  Let  Inistore's  dark  king,"  said 
Oscar,  "  come  to  the  sword  of  Ossian's  son."  "  To 
mine  the  king  of  Iniscon,"  said  Connal,  heart  of  steel ! 
"  Or  Mudan's  chief  or  I,"  said  brown-haired  Dermid, 
"  shall  sleep  on  clay-cold  earth."  My  choice,  though 
now  so  weak  and  dark,  was  Terman's  battling  king  ; 
I  promised  with  my  hand  to  win  the  hero's  dark-brown 
shield.  "  Blest  and  victorious  be  my  chiefs,"  said 
Fingal  of  the  mildest  look.  "  Swaran,  king  of  roaring 
waves,  thou  art  the  choice  of  Fingal  !" 

Now,  like  a  hundred  different  winds  that  pour 
through  many  vales,  divided,  dark  the  sons  of  Selma 
advanced.  Cromla  echoed  around  !  How  can  I  re- 
late the  deaths,  when  we  closed  in  the  strife  of  arms  ? 
O,  daughter  of  Toscar,  bloody  were  our  hands  !  The 
gloomy  ranks  of  Lochlin  fell  like  the  banks  of  roaring 
Cona !  Our  arms  were  victorious  on  Lena :  each 
chief  fulfilled  his  promise.  Beside  the  murmur  of 
Branno  thou  didst  often  sit,  O  maid  !  thy  white  bosom 
rose  frequent,  like  the  down  of  the  swan  when  slow 
she  swims  on  the  lake,  and  sidelong  winds  blow  on  her 
ruffled  wing.  Thou  hast  seen  the  sun  retire,  red  and 
slow  behind  his  cloud  :  night  gathering  round  on  the 
mountain,  while  the  unfrequent  blast  roared  in  the  nar- 
row vales.  At  length  the  rain  beats  hard  :  thunder 
rolls  in  peals.  Lightning  glances  on  the  rocks  !  Spirits 
ride  on  beams  of  fire  !  The  strength  of  the  mountain 
streams  comes  roaring  down  the  hills.  Such  was  the 
noise  of  battle,  maid  of  the  arms  of  snow  !  Why. 
daughter  of  Toscar,  why  that  tear  ?  The  maids  of 
Loehlin  have  cause  to  weep  !  The  people  of  their 
country  fell.  Bloody  were  the  blue  swords  of  the  race 
of  my  heroes  !  But  I  am  sad,  forlorn,  and  blind  :  no 
more  the  companion  of  heroes !  Give,  lovely  maid, 
to  me  thy  tears.  I  have  seen  the  tombs  of  all  my 
friends  ! 

29 


338  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAlf. 

It  was  then,  by  Fingal's  hand,  a  hero  fell,  to  his 
grief!  Gray-haired  he  rolled  in  the  dust.  He  lifted 
his  faint  eyes  to  the  king.  "  And  is  it  by  me  thou  hast 
fallen,"  said  the  son  of  Comhal,  "  thou  friend  of  Agan- 
decca  ?  I  have  seen  thy  tears  for  the  maid  of  my  love 
in  the  halls  of  the  bloody  Starno  !  Thou  hast  been  tte 
foe  of  the  foes  of  my  love,  and  hast  thou  fallen  by  my 
hand  ?  Raise,  Ullin,  raise  the  grave  of  Mathon,  and 
give  his  name  to  Agandecca's  song.  Dear  to  my 
soul  hast  thou  been,  thou  darkly-dwelling  maid  of 
Ardven !" 

Cuthullin,  from  the  cave  of  Cromla,  heard  the  noise 
of  the  troubled  war.  He  called  to  Connal,  chief  of 
swords  :  to  Carril  of  other  times.  The  gray-haired 
heroes  heard  his  voice.  They  took  their  pointed  spears. 
They  came,  and  saw  the  tide  of  battle,  like  ocean's 
crowded  waves,  when  the  dark  wind  blows  from  the 
deep,  and  rolls  the  billows  through  the  sandy  vale  ! 
Cuthullin  kindled  at  the  sight.  Darkness  gathered  on 
his  brow.  His  hand  is  on  the  sword  of  his  fathers  : 
his  red-rolling  eyes  on  the  foe.  He  thrice  attempted 
to  rush  to  battle.  He  thrice  was  stopped  by  Connal. 
"  Chief  of  the  isle  of  mist,"  he  said,  "  Fingal  subdues 
the  foe.  Seek  not  a  part  of  the  fame  of  the  king ; 
himself  is  like  the  storm  !" 

"  Then,  Carril,  go,"  replied  the  chief,  "  go  greet  the 
king  of  Morven.  When  Lochlin  falls  away  ."tike  a 
stream  after  rain  ;  when  the  noise  of  the  battle  is  past ; 
then  be  thy  voice  sweet  in  his  ear  to  praise  the  king 
of  Selma  !  Give  him  the  sword  of  Caithbat.  Cuthul- 
lin  is  not  worthy  to  lift  the  arms  of  his  fathers  !  Come^ 
O  ye  ghosts  of  the  lonely  Cromla  !  ye  souls  of  chiefs 
that  are  no  more  !  be  near  the  steps  of  Cuthullin  ;  talk 
to  him  in  the  cave  of  his  grief.  Never  more  shall  I 
be  renowned  among  the  mighty  in  the  land.  .  am  a 
beam  that  has  shone  j  a  mist  that  has  fled  away  when 


FINGAL.  339 

the  blast  of  the  morning  came,  and  brightened  the 
shaggy  side  of  the  hill.  Connal,  talk  of  arms  no  more  t 
departed  is  my  fame.  My  sighs  shall  be  on  Cromla's 
wind,  till  my  footsteps  cease  to  be  seen.  And  thou, 
white-bosomed  Bragela !  mourn  over  the  fall  of  my 
fame :  vanquished,  I  will  never  return  to  thee,  thou 
sunbeam  of  my  soul !" 


BOOK  V. 

ARGUMENT. 

Cuthullin  and  Connal  still  remain  on  the  hill.  Fingal  and  Swaran 
meet :  the  combat  is  described.  Swaran  is  overcome,  bound, 
and  delivered  over  as  a  prisoner  to  the  care  of  Ossian,  and  Gaul, 
the  son  of  Morni ;  Fingal,  his  younger  sons,  and  Oscar,  still  pur- 
sue the  enemy.  The  episode  of  Orla,  a  chief  of  Lochlin,  who 
was  mortally  wounded  in  the  battle,  is  introduced.  Fingal, 
touched  with  the  death  of  Orla,  orders  the  pursuit  to  be  discon- 
tinued ;  and  calling  his  sons  together,  he  is  informed  that  Ryno, 
the  youngest  of  them,  was  slain.  He  laments  his  death,  hears  the 
story  of  Lamderg  and  Gelchossa,  and  returns  towards  the  place 
where  he  had  left  Swaran.  Carril,  who  had  been  sent  by  Cu- 
thullin to  congratulate  Fingal  on  his  victory,  comes  in  the  mean- 
time to  Ossian.  The  conversation  of  the  two  poets  closes  the 
action  of  the  fourth  day. 

ON  Cromla's  resounding  side  Connal  spoke  to  the 
chief  of  the  noble  car.  Why  that  gloom,  son  of  Semo  ? 
Our  friends  are  the  mighty  in  fight.  Renowned  art 
thou,  O  warrior  !  many  were  the  deaths  of  thy  steel. 
Often  has  Bragela  met,  with  blue-rolling  eyes  of  joy  : 
often  has  she  met  her  hero  returning  in  the  midst  of 
the  valiant,  when  his  sword  was  red  with  slaughter, 
when  his  foes  were  silent  in  the  fields  of  the  tomb. 
Pleasant  to  her  ears  were  thy  bards,  when  thy  deeds 
arose  in  song. 


340  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AW. 

But  behold  the  king  of  Morven !  He  moves,  below, 
like  a  pillar  of  fire.  His  strength  is  like  the  stream  of 
Lubar,  or  the  wind  of  the  echoing  Cromla,  when  the 
branchy  forests  of  night  are  torn  from  all  their  rocks. 
Happy  are  thy  people,  O  Fingal !  thine  arm  shall 
finish  their  wars.  Thou  art"  the  first  in  their  dangers  : 
the  wisest  in  the  days  of  their  peace.  Thou  speakest, 
and  thy  thousands  obey :  armies  tremble  at  the  sound 
of  thy  steel.  Happy  are  thy  people,  O  Fingal !  king 
of  resounding  Seima.  Who  is  that  so  dark  and  terri- 
ble coming  in  the  thunder  of  his  course  ?  who  but 
Starno's  son,  to  meet  the  king  of  Morven  ?  Behold 
the  battle  of  the  chiefs !  it  is  the  storm  of  the  ocean, 
when  two  spirits  meet  far  distant,  and  contend  for  the 
rolling  of  waves.  The  hunter  hears  the  noise  on  his 
hill.  He  sees  the  high  billows  advancing  to  Ardven's 
shore. 

Such  were  the  words  of  Connal  when  the  heroes  met 
in  fight.  There  was  the  clang  of  arms  !  there  every 
blow,  like  the  hundred  hammers  of  the  furnace  !  Ter- 
rible is  the  battle  of  the  kings ;  dreadful  the  look  of 
their  eyes.  Their  dark-brown  shields  are  cleft  in 
twain.  Their  steel  flies,  broken,  from  their  helms. 
They  fling  their  weapons  down.  Each  rushes  to  his 
hero's  grasp ;  their  sinewy  arms  bend  round  each  other : 
they  turn  from  side  to  side,  and  strain  and  stretch  their 
large-spreading  limbs  below.  But  when  the  pride  of 
their  strength  arose,  they  shook  the  hill  with  their 
heels.  Rocks  tumble  from  their  places  on  high  ;  the 
green-headed  bushes  are  overturned.  At  length  the 
strength  of  Swaran  fell;  the  king  of  the  groves  is 
bound.  Thus  have  I  seen  on  Cona  ;  but  Cona  I  behold 
no  more  !  thus  have  I  seen  two  dark  hills  removed  from 
their  place  by  the  strength  of  their  bursting  stream. 
They  turn  from  side  to  side  in  their  fall  ;  their  tall 
oaks  meet  one  another  on  high.  Then  they  tumble 


FINGAL.  341 

together  with  all  their  rocks  and  trees.  The  streams 
are  turned  by  their  side.  The  red  ruin  is  seen  afar. 

"  Sons  of  distant  Morven,"  said  Fingal,  "  guard  the 
king  of  Lochlin.  He  is  strong  as  his  thousand  waves. 
His  hand  is  taught  to  war.  His  race  is  of  the  times 
of  old.  Gaul,  thou  first  of  my  heroes  ;  Ossian,  king  of 
songs  attend.  He  is  the  friend  of  Agandecca  ;  raise 
to  joy  his  grief.  But  Oscar,  Fillan,  and  Ryno,  ye  chil- 
dren of  the  race,  pursue  Lochlin  over  Lena,  that  no 
vessel  may  hereafter  bound  on  the  dark-rolling  waves 
of  Inistore." 

They  flew  sudden  across  the  heath.  He  slowly 
moved,  like  a  cloud  of  thunder,  when  the  sultry  plain 
of  summer  is  silent  and  dark.  His  sword  is  before 
him  as  a  sunbeam  ;  terrible  as  the  streaming  meteor 
of  night.  He  came  towards  a  chief  of  Lochlin.  He 
spoke  to  the  son  of  the  wave. — "  Who  is  that  so  dark 
and  sad,  at  the  rock  of  the  roaring  stream  ?  He  can- 
not  bound  over  its  course.  How  stately  is  the  chief ! 
His  bossy  shield  is  on  his  side  ;  his  spear  like  the  tree 
s»f  the  desert.  Youth  of  the  dark-red  hair,  art  thou  of 
the  foes  of  Fingal  ?" 

"  I  am  a  son  of  Lochlin,"  he  cries  ;  "  strong  is  my 
arm  in  war.  My  spouse  is  weeping  at  home.  Orla 
shall  never  return  !"  "  Or  fights  or  yields  the  hero  ?" 
said  Fingal  of  the  noble  deeds ;  "  foes  do  not  conquer 
in  my  presence  :  my  friends  are  renowned  in  the  hall. 
Son  of  the  wave,  follow  me  :  partake  the  feast  of  my 
shells  :  pursue  the  deer  of  my  desert :  be  thou  the 
friend  of  Fingal."  "  No,"  said  the  hero  :  "  I  assist 
the  feeble.  My  strength  is  with  the  weak  in  arms. 
My  sword  has  been  always  unmatched,  O  warrior  !  let 
the  king  of  Morven  yield  !"  "  I  never  yielded,  Orla. 
Fingal  never  yielded  to  man.  Draw  thy  sword,  and 
choose  thy  foe.  Many  are  my  heroes  !" 

"Does  then  the  king  refuse  the  fight?"  said  Orla  of 
29* 


342  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIC. 

the  dark-brown  shield.  "  Fingal  is  a  match  for  Orla : 
and  he  alone  of  all  his  race  !  But,  king  of  Morven,  if 
I  shall  fall,  as  one  time  the  warrior  must  die  ;  raise  my 
tomb  in  the  midst :  let  it  be  the  greatest  on  Lena. 
Send  over  the  dark-blue  wave,  the  sword  of  Orla  to 
the  spouse  of  his  love,  that  she  may  show  it  to  her  son, 
with  tears  to  kindle  his  soul  to  war."  "  Son  of  the 
mournful  tale,"  said  Fingal,  "  why  dost  thou  awaken 
my  tears !  One  day  the  warriors  must  die,  and  the 
children  see  their  useless  arms  in  the  hall.  But,  Orla, 
thy  tomb  shall  rise.  Thy  white-bosomed  spouse  shall 
weep  over  thy  sword." 

They  fought  on  the  heath  of  Lena.  Feeble  was  the 
arm  of  Orla.  The  sword  of  Fingal  descended,  and 
cleft  his  shield  in  twain.  It  fell  and  glittered  on  the 
ground,  as  the  moon  on  the  ruffled  stream.  "  King 
of  Morven,"  said  the  hero,  "  lift  thy  sword  and  pierce 
my  breast.  Wounded  and  faint  from  battle,  my  friends 
have  left  me  here.  The  mournful  tale  shall  come  to 
my  love  on  the  banks  of  the  streamy  Lota,  when  she 
is  alone  in  the  wood,  and  the  rustling  blast  in  the 
leaves !" 

"  No,"  said  the  king  of  Morven :  "  I  will  never 
wound  thee,  Orla.  On  the  banks  of  Lota  let  her  see 
thee,  escaped  from  the  hands  of  war.  Let  thy  gray, 
haired  father,  who,  perhaps,  is  blind  with  age,  let  him 
hear  the  sound  of  thy  voice,  and  brighten  within  his 
hall.  With  joy  let  the  hero  rise,  and  search  for  his 
son  with  his  hands  !"  "  But  never  will  he  find  him, 
Fingal,"  said  the  youth  of  the  streamy  Lota :  "  on 
Lena's  heath  I  must  die :  foreign  bards  shall  talk  of 
me.  My  broad  belt  covers  my  wound  of  death.  I  give 
it  to  the  wind  !" 

The  dark  blood  poured  from  his  side  :  he  fell  pale  on 
the  heath  of  Lena.  Fingal  bent  over  him  as  he  died, 
and  called  his  youiger  chiefs.  "  Oscar  and  Fillan, 


FINGAL.  343 

my  sons,  raise  high  the  memory  of  Orla.  Here  let 
the  dark-haired  hero  rest,  far  from  the  spouse  of  his 
love.  Here  let  him  rest  in  his  narrow  house,  far  from 
the  sound  of  Lota.  The  feeble  will  find  his  bow  at 
home,  but  will  not  be  able  to  bend  it.  His  faithful  dogs 
howl  on  his  hills ;  his  boars  which  he  used  to  pursue, 
rejoice.  Fallen  is  the  arm  of  battle  !  the  mighty 
among  the  valiant  is  low  !  Exalt  the  voice,  and  blow 
the  horn,  ye  sons  of  the  king  of  Morven !  Let  us  go 
back  to  Swaran,  to  send  the  night  away  in  song.  Fil- 
lan,  Oscar,  and  Ryno,  fly  over  the  heath  of  Lena. 
Where,  Ryno,  art  thou,  young  son  of  fame  ?  Thou 
art  not  wont  to  be  the  last  to  answer  thy  father's  voice  !" 

"  Ryno,"  said  Ullin,  first  of  bards,  "  is  with  the 
awful  forms  of  his  fathers.  With  Trathal,  king  of 
shields  ;  with  Trenmor  of  mighty  deeds.  The  youth 
is  low,  the  youth  is  pale,  he  lies  on  Lena's  heath !" 
"  Fell  the  swiftest  of  the  race,"  said  the  king,  "  the 
first  to  bend  the  bow  ?  Thou  scarce  hast  been  known 
to  me  !  Why  did  young  Ryno  fall  ?  But  sleep  thou 
softly  on  Lena;  Fingal  shall  soon  behold  thee.  Soon 
shall  my  voice  be  heard  no  more,  and  my  footsteps 
cease  to  be  seen.  The  bards  will  tell  of  Fingal's  name. 
The  stones  will  talk  of  me.  But,  Ryno,  thou  art  low, 
indeed  :  thou  hast  not  received  thy  fame.  Ullin,  strike 
the  harp  for  Ryno  ;  tell  what  the  chief  would  have 
been.  Farewell,  thou  first  in  every  field.  No  more 
shall  I  direct  thy  dart.  Thou  that  hast  been  so  fair ! 
I  behold  thee  not.  Farewell."  The  tear  is  on  the 
cheek  of  the  king,  for  terrible  was  his  son  in  war.  His 
son  that  was  like  a  beam  of  fire  by  night  on  a  hill,  when 
the  forests  sink  down  in  its  course,  and  the  traveller 
trembles  at  the  sound.  But  the  winds  drive  it  beyond 
the  steep.  It  sinks  from  sight,  and  darkness  prevails. 

"  Whose  fame  is  in  that  dark-green  tomb  ?"  began 
the  king  of  generous  shells :  "  four  stones  with  their 


344  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

heads  of  moss  stand  there .  They  mark  the  narrow  house 
of  death.  Near  it  let  Ryno  rest.  A  neighbor  to  the 
brave  let  hin^lie.  Some  chief  of  fame  is  here,  to  fly 
with  my  son  on  clouds.  O  Ullin  !  raise  the  songs  of 
old.  Awake  their  memory  in  their  tomb.  If  in  the 
field  they  never  fled,  my  son  shall  rest  by  their  side. 
He  shall  rest,  far  distant  from  Morven.  on  Lena's  re- 
sounding plains." 

"  Here,"  said  the  bard  of  song,  "  here  rest  the  first 
of  heroes.  Silent  is  Lamderg  in  this  place,  dumb  is 
Ullin,  king  of  swords.  And  who,  soft  smiling  from 
her  cloud,  shows  me  her  face  of  love  ?  Why,  daughter, 
why  so  pale  art  thou,  first  of  the  maids  of  Cromla  ? 
Dost  thou  sleep  with  the  foes  in  battle,  white-bosomed 
daughter  of  Tuathal  ?  Thou  hast  been  the  love  of 
thousands,  but  Lamderg  was  thy  love.  He  came  to 
Tura's  mossy  towers,  and  striking  his  dark  buckler, 
spoke:  'Where  is  Gelchossa,  my  love,  the  daughter 
of  the  noble  Tuathal  ?  I  left  her  in  the  hall  of  Tura, 
when  I  fought  with  the  great  Ulfada.  Return  soon, 
O  Lamdeig  !  she  said,  for  here  I  sit  in  grief.  Her 
white  breast  rose  with  sighs.  Her  cheek  was  wet  with 
tears.  But  I  see  her  not  coming  to  meet  me  to  sooth 
my  soul  after  war.  Silent  is  the  hall  of  my  joy.  I 
near  not  the  voice  of  the  bard.  Bran  does  not  shake 
nis  chains  at  the  gate,  glad  at  the  coming  of  Lamderg. 
Where  is  Gelchossa,  my  love,  the  mild  daughter  of 
generous  Tuathal  ?' 

"  '  Lamderg,'  says  Ferchios,  son  of  Aidon,  '  Gel. 
chossa  moves  stately  on  Cromla.  She  and  the  maids 
of  the  bow  pursue  the  flying  deer  ''  '  Ferchios  !'  re- 
plied the  chief  of  Cromla,  '  no  noise  meets  the  ear  01 
Lamderg  !  No  sound  is  in  the  woods  of  Lena.  No 
deer  fly  in  my  sight.  No  panting  dog  pursues.  I  see 
not  Gelchossa,  my  love,  fair  as  the  full  moon  setting  on 
the  hills.  Go,  Ferchios,  go  to  Allad,  the  grav-haired 


FINGAL.  345 

son  of  the  rock.  His  dwelling  is  in  the  circle  of  stones. 
He  may  know  of  the  bright  Gelchossa  !' 

"  The  son  of  Aidon  went.  He  spoke  to  the  ear  of 
age.  '  Allad,  dweller  of  rocks,  thou  that  tremblest 
alone,  what  saw  thine  eyes  of  age  ?'  '  I  saw,'  answered 
Allad  the  old,  '  Ullin  the  son  of  Cairbar.  He  came,  in 
darkness,  from  Cromla.  He  hummed  a  surly  song, 
like  a  blast  in  a  leafless  wood.  He  entered  the  hall  of 
Tura.  "  Lamderg,"  he  said,  "  most  dreadful  of  men, 
fight  or  yield  to  Ullin."  "  Lamderg,"  replied  Gel- 
chossa,  "  the  son  of  battle  is  not  here.  He  fights 
Ulfada,  mighty  chief.  He  is  not  here,  thou  first  of 
men  !  But  Lamderg  never  yields.  He  will  fight  the 
son  of  Cairbar  !"  "  Lovely  thou,"  said  terrible  Ullin, 
"  daughter  of  the  generous  Tuathal.  I  carry  thee  to 
Cairbar's  halls.  The  valiant  shall  have  Gelchossa. 
Three  days  I  remain  on  Cromla,  to  wait  that  son  of 
battle,  Lamderg.  On  the  fourth  Gelchossa  is  mine, 
if  the  mighty  Lamderg  flies."' 

"  '  Allad,'  said  the  chief  of  Cromla,  '  peace  to  thy 
dreams  in  the  cave !  Ferchios,  sound  the  horn  of 
Lamderg,  that  Ullin  may  hear  in  his  halls.'  Lamderg, 
like  a  roaring  storm  ascended  the  hill  from  Tura.  He 
hummed  a  surly  song  as  he  went,  like  the  noise  of  a 
falling  stream.  He  darkly  stood  upon  the  hill,  like  a 
cloud  varying  its  form  to  the  wind.  He  rolled  a  stone, 
the  sign  of  war.  Ullin  heard  in  Cairbar's  hall.  The 
hero  heard,  with  joy,  his  foe.  He  took  his  father's 
spear.  A  smile  brightens  his  dark-brown  cheek,  as 
he  places  his  sword  by  his  side.  The  dagger  glittered 
in  his  hand,  he  whistled  as  he  went. 

"  Gelchossa  saw  the  silent  chief,  as  a  wreath  of  mist 
ascending  the  hill.  She  struck  her  white  and  heaving 
breast ;  and  silent,  tearful,  feared  for  Lamderg.  '  Cair- 
bar, hoary  chief  of  shells,'  said  the  maid  of  the  tender 
hand,  '  I  must  bend  the  bow  on  Cromla.  I  see  the 


346  &£.  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

dark-brown  hinds.'  She  hasted  up  the  hill.  In  vain  ! 
the  gloomy  heroes  fought.  Why  should^  tell  to  Sel- 
ma's  king  how  wrathful  heroes  fight  ?  Fierce  Ullin 
fell.  Young  Lamderg  came,  all  pale,  to  the  daughter 
of  generous  Tuathal !  '  What  blood,  my  love,'  she 
trembling  said,  '  what  blood  runs  down  my  warrior's 
side  ?'  '  It  is  Ullin's  blood,'  the  chief  replied,  '  thou 
fairer  than  the  snow  !  Gelchossa,  let  me  rest  here  a 
little  while.'  The  mighty  Lamderg  died !  '  And 
sleepest  thou  so  soon  on  earth,  O  chief  of  shady  Tura  ?' 
Three  days  she  mourned  beside  her  love.  The  hunt- 
ers found  her  cold.  They  raised  this  tomb  above  the 
three.  Thy  son,  O  king  of  Morven,  may  rest  here  with 
heroes !" 

"  And  here  my  son  shall  rest,"  said  Fingal.  "  The 
voice  of  their  fame  is  hi  mine  ears.  Fillan  and  Fer- 
gus, bring  hither  Orla,  the  pale  youth  of  the  stream  of 
Lota  !  not  unequalled  shall  Ryno  lie  in  earth,  when 
Orla  is  by  his  side.  Weep,  ye  daughters  of  Morven  ! 
ye  maids  of  the  streamy  Lota,  weep  !  Like  a  tree  they 
grew  on  the  hills.  They  have  fallen  like  the  oak  of 
the  desert,  when  it  lies  across  a  stream,  and  withers  in 
the  wind.  Oscar,  chief  of  every  youth,  thou  seest  how 
they  have  fallen.  Be  thou  like  them  on  earth  renown- 
ed. Like  them  the  song  of  bards.  Terrible  were 
their  forms  in  battle  ;  but  calm  was  Ryno  in  the  days 
of  peace.  He  was  like  the  bow  of  the  shower  seen 
far  distant  on  the  stream,  when  the  sun  is  setting  on 
Mora,  when  silence  dwells  on  the  hill  of  deer.  Rest, 
youngest  of  my  sons  !  rest,  O  Ryno  !  on  Lena.  We 
too  shall  be  no  more.  Warriors  one  day  must  fall !" 

Such  was  thy  grief,  thou  king  of  swords,  when  Ryno 
ay  on  earth.  What  must  the  grief  of  Ossian  be,  for 
Ihou  thyself  art  gone  !  I  hear  not  thy  distant  voice  on 
Cona.  My  eyes  perceive  thee  not.  Often  forlorn  and 
dark  I  sit  at  thy  tomb,  and  feel  it  with  my  hands. 


FIJUGAL.  347 

When  I  think  I  hear  thy  voice,  it  is  but  the  passing 
blast.  Fingal  has  long  since  fallen  asleep,  the  ruler 
of  the  war ! 

Then  Gaul  and  Ossian  sat  with  Swaran,  on  the  soft 
green  banks  of  Lubar.  I  touched  the  harp  to  please 
the  king ;  but  gloomy  was  his  brow.  He  rolled  his 
red  eyes  towards  Lena.  The  hero  mourned  his  host. 
I.  raised  mine  eyes  to  Cromla's  brow.  I  saw  the  son 
of  generous  Semo.  Sad  and  slow  he  retired  from  his 
hill,  towards  the  lonely  cave  of  Tura.  He  saw  Fin- 
gal  victorious,  and  mixed  his  joy  with  grief.  The  sun 
is  bright  on  his  armor.  Connal  slowly  strode  behind. 
They  sunk  behind  the  hill,  like  two  pillars  of  the  fire 
of  night,  when  winds  pursue  them  over  the  mountain, 
and  the  flaming  death  resounds  !  Beside  a  stream  of 
roaring  foam  his  cave  is  in  a  rock.  One  tree  bends 
above  it.  The  rushing  winds  echo  against  its  sides. 
Here  rests  the  chief  of  Erin,  the  son  of  generous  Se- 
mo. His  thoughts  are  on  the  battles  he  lost.  The 
tear  is  on  his  cheek. .  He  mourned  the  departure  of 
his  fame,  that  fled  like  the  mist  of  Cona.  O  Bragela  ! 
thou  art  too  far  remote  to  cheer  the  soul  of  the  hero. 
But  let  him  see  thy  bright  form  in  his  mind,  that  his 
thoughts  may  return  to  the  lonely  sunbeam  of  his 
love ! 

Who  comes  with  the  locks  of  age  ?  It  is  the  son  of 
songs.  "  Hail,  Carril  of  other  times  !  Thy  voice  is 
like  the  harp  in  the  halls  of  Tura.  Thy  words  are 
pleasant  as  the  shower  which  falls  on  the  sunny  field. 
Carril  of  the  times  of  old,  why  comest  thou  from  the 
son  of  the  generous  Semo  ?" 

"  Ossian,  king  of  swords,"  replied  the  bard,  "  thou 
best  canst  raise  the  song.  Long  hast  thou  been  known 
to  Carril,  thou  ruler  of  war  !  Often  have  I  touched  the 
harp  to  lovely  Everallin.  Thou  too  hast  often  joined 
my  voice  in  Branno's  hall  of  generous  shells.  \.nd 


343  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

often,  amidst  our  voices,  was  heard  the  mildest  Everal. 
lin.  One  day  she  sung  of  Cormac's  fall,  the  youth 
who  died  for  her  love.  I  saw  the  tears  on  her  cheek, 
and  on  thine,  thou  chief  of  men.  Her  soul  was  touched 
for  the  unhappy,  though  she  loved  him  not.  How  fair 
among  a  thousand  maids  was  the  daughter  of  generous 
Branno !" 

"  Bring  not,  Carril,"  I  replied,  "  bring  not  her 
memory  to  my  mind.  My  soul  must  melt  at  the  le- 
membrance.  My  eyes  must  have  their  tears.  Pale 
in  the  earth  is  she,  the  softly-blushing  fair  of  my  love ! 
But  sit  thou  on  the  heath,  O  bard  !  and  let  us  hear  thy 
voice.  It  is  pleasant  as  the  gale  of  spring,  that  sighs 
on  the  hunter's  ear,  when  he  awakens  from  dreams  of 
joy,  and  has  heard  the  music  of  the  spirits  of  the  hill  '}J 


BOOK  VL 

ARGUMENT. 

Night  comes  on.  Fingal  gives  a  feast  to  his  armv,  at  which  Swa- 
ran  is  present.  The  king  commands  UUin  his  bard  to  give  "  th<* 
song  of  peace  ;"  a  custom  always  observed  at  the  end  of  a  war. 
Ulhn  relates  the  actions  of  Trenmor,  great-grandfather  to  Fingal, 
in  Scandinavia,  and  his  marriage  with  Inibaca,  the  daughter  of 
a  king  of  Lochiin,  who  was  ancestor  to  Swaran  ;  which  consid- 
eration, together  with  his  being  brother  to  Agandecca,  with 
whom  Fingal  was  in  love  in  his  youth,  induced  the  king  to  re- 
lease him,  and  permit  him  to  return  with  the  remains  of  his  army 
into  Lochlin,  upon  his  promise  of  never  returning  to  Ireland  in  a 
hostile  manner.  The  night  is  spent  in  settling  Swaran's  depart- 
are,  in  songs  ofbards,  and  in  a  conversation  in  which  the  story  ot 
Grnmal  is  introduced  by  Fingal.  Morning  comes.  Swaran  de- 
parts. Fingal  goes  on  a  hunting  party,  and  finding  CuthuUin  in 
the  cave  of  Tura,  comforts  him,  and  sets  sail  the  next  day  for 
Scotland,  which  concludes  the  poem. 

THE  clouds  of  night  came  rolling  down.     Darkness 
rests  on  the  steeps  of  Cromla.     The  stars  of  the  north 


F1NGAL.  349 

arise  over  the  rolling  of  Erin's  waves  ;  they  show  their 
heads  of  fire  through  the  flying  mist  of  heaven.  A 
distant  wind  roars  in  the  wood.  Silent  and  dark  is  the 
plain  of  death  !  Still  on  the  dusky  Lena  arose  in  my 
ears  the  voice  of  Carril.  He  sung  of  the  friends  of 
our  youth  ;  the  days  of  former  years  ;  when  we  met 
on  the  banks  of  Lego ;  when  we  sent  round  the  joy  of 
the  shell.  Cromla  answered  to  his  voice.  The  ghosts 
of  those  he  sung  came  in  their  rustling  winds.  They 
were  seen  to  bend  with  joy,  towards  the  sound  of  their 
praise ! 

Be  thy  soul  blest,  O  Carril  !  in  the  midst  of  thy  ed- 
dying winds.  O  that  thou  wouldst  come  to  my  hall, 
when  I  am  alone  by  night !  And  thou  dost  come,  my 
friend.  I  hear  often  thy  light  hand  on  my  harp,  when 
it  hangs  on  the  distant  wall,  and  the  feeble  sound 
touches  my  ear.  Why  dost  thou  not  speak  to  me  in 
my  grief:  and  tell  when  I  shall  behold  my  friends  '\ 
But  thou  passest  away  in  thy  murmuring  blast ;  the 
wind  whistles  through  the  gray  hair  of  Ossian  ! 

Now,  on  the  side  of  Mora,  the  heroes  gathered  to 
the  feast.  A  thousand  aged  oaks  are  burning  to  the 
wind.  The  strength  of  the  shell  goes  round.  The 
souls  of  warriors  brighten  with  joy.  But  the  king  of 
Lochlin  is  silent.  Sorrow  reddens  in  the  eyes  of  his 
pride.  He  often  turned  towards  Lena.  He  remem- 
bered that  he  fell.  Fingal  leaned  on  the  shield  of  his 
fathers.  His  gray  locks  slowly  waved  on  the  wind, 
and  glittered  to  the  beam  of  night.  He  saw  the  grief 
of  Swaran,  and  spoke  to  the  first  of  bards. 

"  Raise,  Ullin,  raise  the  song  of  peace.  O  sooth 
my  soul  from  war  !  Let  mine  ear  forget,  in  the  sound, 
the  dismal  noise  of  arms.  Let  a  hundred  harps  be 
near  to  gladden  the  king  of  Lochlin.  He  must  depart 
from  us  with  joy.  None  ever  went  sad  from  Fingal. 
Oscar !  the  lightning  of  my  sword  is  against  the  strong 
30 


350  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN. 

in  fight.  Peaceful  it  lies  by  my  side  when  warriors 
yield  in  war." 

"  Trenmor,"  said  the  mouth  of  songs,  "  lived  in  the 
days  of  other  years.  He  bounded  over  the  waves  of 
the  north ;  companion  of  the  storm  !  The  high  rocks 
of  the  land  of  Lochlin,  its  groves  of  murmuring  sounds, 
appeared  to  the  hero  through  mist ;  he  bound  his  white- 
bosomed  sails.  Trenmor  pursued  the  boar  that  roared 
through  the  woods  of  Gormal.  Many  had  fled  from 
its  presence  ;  but  it  rolled  in  death  on  the  spear  of 
Trenmor.  Three  chiefs,  who  beheld  the  deed,  told  of 
the  mighty  stranger.  They  told  that  he  stood,  like  a 
pillar  of  fire,  in  the  bright  arms  of  his  valor.  The 
king  of  Lochlin  prepared  the  feast.  He  called  the 
blooming  Trenmor.  Three  days  he  feasted  at  Gor- 
mal's  windy  towers,  and  received  his  choice  in  the  com- 
bat. The  land  of  Lochlin  had  no  hero  that  yielded 
not  to  Trenmor.  The  shell  of  joy  went  round  with 
songs  in  praise  of  the  king  of  Morven.  He  that  came 
over  the  waves,  the  first  of  mighty  men. 

"  Now  when  the  fourth  gray  morn  arose,  the  hero 
launched  his  ship.  He  walked  along  the  silent  shore, 
and  called  for  the  rushing  wind  ;  for  loud  and  distant 
he  heard  the  blast  murmuring  behind  the  groves. 
Covered  over  with  arms  of  steel,  a  son  of  the  woody 
Gormal  appeared.  Red  was  his  cheek,  and  fair  his 
hair.  His  skin  was  like  the  snow  of  Morven.  Mild 
rolled  his  blue  and  smiling  eye,  when  he  spoke  to  the 
king  of  swords. 

"  '  Stay,  Trenmor,  stay,  thou  first  of  men  ;  thou 
hast  not  conquered  Lonval's  son.  My  sword  has 
often  met  the  brave.  The  wise  shun  the  strength  of 
my  bow.'  '  Thou  fair-haired  youth,'  Trenmor  replied, 
'  I  will  not  fight  with  Lonval's  son.  Thine  arm  is 
feeble,  sunbeam  of  youth  !  Retire  to  Gormal's  dark- 
brown  hinds.'  '  But  I  will  retire,'  replied  the  youth, 


FINGAL.  351 

4  with  the  sword  of  Trenmor  ;  and  exult  in  the  sound 
of  my  fame.  The  virgins  shall  gather  with  smiles 
around  him  who  conquered  mighty  Trenmor.  They 
shall  sigh  with  the  sighs  of  love,  and  admire  the  length 
of  thy  spear :  when  I  shall  carry  it  among  thousands  j 
when  I  lift  the  glittering  point  to  the  sun.' 

"  '  Thou  shalt  never  carry  my  spear,'  said  the  angry 
king  of  Morven.  '  Thy  mother  shall  find  thee  pale  on 
the  shore  ;  and  looking  over  the  dark-blue  deep,  see 
the  sails  of  him  that  slew  her  son  !'  '  I  will  not  lift  the 
spear,'  replied  the  youth,  '  my  arm  is  not  strong  with 
years.  But  with  the  feathered  dart  I  have  learned  to 
pierce  a  distant  foe.  Throw  down  that  heavy  mail  of 
steel.  Trenmor  is  covered  from  death.  I  first  will 
lay  my  mail  on  earth.  Throw  now  thy  dart,  thou  king 
of  Morven  !'  He  saw  the  heaving  of  her  breast.  It 
was  the  sister  of  the  king.  She  had  seen  him  in  the 
hall :  and  loved  his  face  of  youth.  The  spear  dropt 
from  the  hand  of  Trenmor  :  he  bent  his  red  cheek  to 
the  ground.  She  was  to  him  a  beam  of  light  that  meets 
the  sons  of  the  cave  ;  when  they  revisit  the  fields  of 
the  sun,  and  bend  their  aching  eyes  ! 

"  '  Chief  of  the  windy  Morven,'  began  the  maid  of 
the  arms  of  snow,  '  let  me  rest  in  thy  bounding  ship, 
far  from  the  love  of  Corlo.  For  he,  like  the  thunder 
of  the  desert,  is  terrible  to  Inibaca.  He  loves  me  in 
the  gloom  of  pride.  He  shakes  ten  thousand  spears  !' 
— '  Rest  thou  in  peace,'  said  the  mighty  Trenmor, 
'  rest  behind  the  shield  of  my  fathers.  I  will  not  fly 
from  the  chief,  though  he  shakes  ten  thousand  spears.' 
Three  days  he  waited  on  the  shore.  He  sent  his  horn 
abroad.  He  called  Corlo  to  battle,  from  all  his  echo- 
ing hills.  But  Corlo  carne  not  to  battle.  The  king  of 
Lochlin  descends  from  his  hall.  He  feasted  on  the 
roaring  shore.  He  gave  the  maid  to  Trenmor !" 

"  King  of  Lochlin,"  said  Fingal,  "  thy  blood  flow* 


852  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAN. 

in  the  veins  of  thy  foe.  Our  fathers  met  in  battle,  be- 
cause  they  loved  the  strife  of  spears.  But  often  did 
they  feast  in  the  hall  .  and  send  round  the  joy  of  the 
shell.  Let  thy  face  brighten  with  gladness,  and  thine 
ear  delight  in  the  harp.  Dreadful  as  the  storm  of  thine 
ocean,  thou  hast  poured  thy  valor  forth  ;  thy  voice  has 
been  like  the  voice  of  thousands  when  they  engage  in 
war.  Raise,  to-morrow,  raise  thy  white  sails  to  the 
wind,  thou  brother  of  Agandecca  !  Bright  as  the  beam 
of  noon,  she  comes  on  my  mournful  soul.  I  have  seen 
thy  tears  for  the  fair  one.  I  spared  thee  in  the  halls 
of  Starno  ;  when  my  sword  was  red  with  slaughter : 
when  my  eye  was  full  of  tears  for  the  maid.  Or  dost 
thou  choose  the  fight  ?  The  combat  which  thy  fathers 
gave  to  Trenmor  is  thine  !  that  thou  mayest  depart  re 
nowned,  like  the  sun  setting  in  the  west !" 

"  King  of  the  race  of  Morven  !"  said  the  chief  oi 
resounding  Lochlin,  "  never  will  Swaran  fight  with 
thee,  first  of  a  thousand  heroes  !  I  have  seen  thee  in 
the  halls  of  Starno  ;  few  were  thy  years  beyond  my 
own.  When  shall  I,  I  said  to  my  soul,  lift  the  spear 
like  the  noble  Fingal  ?  We  have  fought  heretofore,  O 
warrior,  on  the  side  of  the  shaggy  Malmor  ;  after  my 
waves  had  carried  me  to  thy  halls,  and  the  feast  of  a 
thousand  shells  was  spread.  Let  the  bards  send  his 
name  who  overcame  to  future  years,  for  noble  was  the 
strife  of  Malmor  !  But  many  of  the  ships  of  Lochlin 
have  lost  their  youths  on  Lena.  Take  these,  thou 
king  of  Morven,  and  be  the  friend  of  Swaran  !  When 
thy  sons  shall  come  to  Gormal,  the  feast  of  shells  shall 
be  spread,  and  the  combat  offered  on  the  vale." 

"  Nor  ship,"  replied  the  king,  "  shall  Fingal  take, 
nor  land  of  many  hills.  The  desert  is  enough  to  me, 
with  all  its  deer  and  woods.  Rise  on  thy  waves  again, 
thou  noble  friend  of  Agandecca  !  Spread  thy  white 
sails  to  the  beam  of  the  morning  ;  return  to  the  echo- 


FINGAL.  353 

ing  hills  of  Gormal." — "  Blest  be  thy  soul,  thou  king 
of  shells,"  said  Swaraa  of  the  dark-brown  shield.  "  Ir« 
peace  thou  art  the  gale  of  spring  ;  in  war  the  moun- 
tain storm.  Take  now  my  hand  in  friendship,  king  of 
echoing  Selma !  Let  thy  bards  mourn  those  who  fell. 
Let  Erin  give  the  sons  of  Lochlin  to  earth.  Raise 
high  the  mossy  stones  of  their  fame  :  that  the  children 
of  the  north  hereafter  may  behold  the  place  where  their 
fathers  fought.  The  hunter  may  say,  when  he  leans  on 
a  mossy  tomb,  Here  Fingal  and  Swaran  fought,  the 
heroes  of  other  years.  Thus  hereafter  shall  he  say, 
and  our  fame  shall  last  for  ever." 

"  Swaran,"  said  the  king  of  hills,  "  to  day  our  fame 
is  greatest.  We  shall  pass  away  like  a  dream.  No 
sound  will  remain  in  our  fields  of  war.  Our  tombs  will 
be  lost  in  the  heath.  The  hunter  shall  not  know  the 
place  of  our  rest.  Our  names  may  be  heard  in  song. 
What  avails  it,  when  our  strength  hath  ceased  1  O  Os- 
sian,  Carril,  and  Ullin  !  you  know  of  heroes  that  are  no 
more.  Give  us  the  song  of  other  years.  Let  the  night 
pass  away  on  the  sound,  and  morning  return  with  joy." 

We  gave  the  song  to  the  kings.  A  hundred  harps 
mixed  their  sound  with  our  voice.  The  face  of  Swa- 
ran brightened,  like  the  full  moon  of  heaven ;  when 
the  clouds  vanish  away,  and  leave  her  calm  and  broad 
in  the  midst  of  the  sky. 

"  Where,  Carril,"  said  the  great  Fingal,  "  Carril  of 
other  times !  where  is  the  son  of  Semo,  the  king  of 
the  isle  of  mist  1  Has  he  retired  like  the  meteor  of 
death,  to  the  dreary  cave  of  TuraT' — "  Cuthullin," 
said  Carril  of  other  times,  "  lies  in  the  dreary  cave  of 
Tura.  His  hand  is  on  the  sword  of  his  strength.  His 
thoughts  on  the  battles  he  lost.  Mournful  is  the  king 
of  spears :  till  now  unconquered  in  war.  He  sends 
his  sword,  to  rest  on  the  side  of  Fingal  :  for,  like  the 
storm  of  the  desert,  thou  hast  scattered  all  his  foes. 
30* 


854  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAH. 

Take,  O  Fingal !  the  sword  of  the  hero.  His  fame  is 
departed  like  mist,  when  it  flies,  before  the  rustling 
wind,  along  the  brightening  vale." 

"  No,"  replied  the  king,  "  Fingal  shall  never  take 
his  sword.  His  arm  is  mighty  in  war :  his  fame  shall 
never  fail.  Many  have  been  overcome  in  battle; 
whose  renown  arose  from  their  fall.  O  Swarau,  king 
of  resounding  woods,  give  all  thy  grief  away.  The 
vanquished,  if  brave,  are  renowned.  They  are  like 
the  sun  in  a  cloud,  when  he  hides  his  face  in  the  south, 
but  looks  again  on  the  hills  of  grass." 

"  Grumal  was  a  chief  of  Cona.  He  sought  the  battle 
on  every  coast.  His  soul  rejoiced  in  blood ;  his  ear 
in  the  din  of  arms.  He  poured  his  warriors  on  Craca ; 
Craca's  king  met  him  from  his  grove ;  for  then,  within 
the  circle  of  Brumo,  he  spoke  to  the  stone  of  power. 
Fierce  was  the  battle  of  the  heroes,  for  the  maid  of 
the  breast  of  snow.  The  fame  of  the  daughter  of 
Craca  had  reached  Grumal  at  the  streams  of  Cona;  he 
vowed  to  have  the  white-bosomed  maid,  or  die  on 
echoing  Craca.  Three  days  they  strove  together,  and 
Grumal  on  the  fourth  was  bound.  Far  from  his  friends 
they  placed  him  in  the  horrid  circle  of  Brumo ;  where 
often,  they  said,  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  howled  round 
the  stone  of  their  fear.  But  he  afterward  shone,  like 
a  pillar  of  the  light  of  heaven.  They  fell  by  his  mighty 
hand.  Grumal  had  all  his  fame  ! 

"  Raise,  ye  bards  of  other  times,"  continued  the 
great  Fingal,  "  raise  high  the  praise  of  heroes :  that 
my  soul  may  settle  on  their  fame ;  that  the  mind  of 
Swaran  may  cease  to  be  sad."  They  *ay  in  the  heath 
of  Mora.  The  dark  "winds  rustled  over  the  chiefs.  A 
hundred  voices,  at  once,  arose  ;  a  hundred  harps  were 
strung.  They  sung  of  other  times  ;  the  mighty  chiefs 
of  former  years  !  When  now  shall  I  hear  the  bard  ? 
When  rejoice  at  the  fame  of  my  fathers  ?  The  harp  is 


FINGAL.  355 

not  strung  on  Morven.  The  voice  of  music  ascends 
not  on  Cona.  Dead,  with  the  mighty,  is .  the  bard. 
Fame  is  in  the  desert  no  more." 

Morning  trembles  with  the  beam  of  the  east ;  it 
glimmers  on  Cromla's  side.  Over  Lena  is  heard  the 
horn  of  Swaran  The  sons  of  the  ocean  gather  around. 
Silent  and  sad  they  rise  on  the  wave.  The  blast  of 
Erin  is  behind  their  sails.  White,  as  the  mist  of  Mor- 
ven, they  float  along  the  sea.  "  Call,"  said  Fingal, 
"  call  my  dogs,  the  long-bounding  sons  of  the  chase. 
Call  white-breasted  Bran,  and  the  surly  strength  of 
Luath  !  Fillan,  and  Ryno  ; — but  he  is  not  here  !  My 
son  rests  on  the  bed  of  death.  Fillan  and  Fergus ! 
blow  the  horn,  that  the  joy  of  the  chase  may  arise ; 
that  the  deer  of  Cromla  may  hear,  and  start  at  the  lake 
of  roes." 

The  shrill  sound  spreads  along  the  wood.  The  sons 
of  heathy  Cromla  arise.  A  thousand  dogs  fly  off*  at 
once,  gray-bounding  through  the  heath.  A  deer  fell 
by  every  dog  ;  three  by  the  white-breasted  Bran.  He 
brought  them,  in  their  flight,  to  Fingal,  that  the  joy  of 
the  king  might  be  great !  One  deer  fell  at  the  tomb  of 
Ryno.  The  grief  of  Fingal  returned.  He  saw  how 
peaceful  lay  the  stone  of  him,  who  was  the  first  at  the 
chase  !  "  No  more  shalt  thou  rise,  O  my  son  !  to  par- 
take of  the  feast  of  Cromla.  Soon  will  thy  tomb  be 
hid,  and  the  grass  grow  rank  on  thy  grave.  The  sons 
of  the  feeble  shall  pass  along.  They  shall  not  know 
where  the  mighty  lie. 

"  Ossian  and  Fillan,  sons  of  my  strength !  Gaul, 
chief  of  the  blue  steel  of  war !  Let  us  ascend  the  hill 
to  the  cave  of  Tura.  Let  us  find  the  chief  of  the  battles 
of  Erin.  Are  these  the  walls  of  Tura  ?  gray  and  lonely 
they  rise  on  the  heath.  The  chief  of  shells  is  sad,  and 
the  halls  are  silent  and  lonely.  Come,  let  us  find  Cu- 
thullin,  and  give  him  all  our  joy.  But  is  that  Cu- 


356  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

thullin,  O  Fillan,  or  a  pillar  of  smoke  on  the  heath  ? 
The  wind  of  Cromla  is  on  my  eyes.  I  distinguish  not 
my  friend." 

"  Fingal !"  replied  the  youth,  "  it  is  the  son  of  Semo !" 
Gloomy  and  sad  is  the  hero  !  his  hand  is  on  his  sword. 
Hail  to  the  son  of  battle,  breaker  of  the  shields !" 
"  Hail  to  thee,"  replied  Cuthullin,  "  hail  to  all  the  sons 
of  Morven  !  Delightful  is  thy  presence,  O  Fingal !  it  is 
the  sun  on  Cromla :  when  the  hunter  mourns  his  ab- 
sence for  a  season,  and  sees  him  between  the  clouds. 
Thy  sons  are  like  stars  that  attend  thy  course.  They 
give  light  in  the  night.  It  is  not  thus  thou  hast  seen 
me,  O  Fingal !  returning  from  the  wars  of  thy  land : 
when  the  kings  of  the  world  had  fled,  and  joy  returned 
to  the  hills  of  hinds  !" 

"  Many  are  thy  words,  Cuthullin,"  said  Connan  of 
small  renown.  "  Thy  words  are  many,  son  of  Semo, 
but  where  are  thy  deeds  in  arms  ?  Why  did  we  come, 
over  ocean,  to  aid  thy  feeble  sword  ?  Thou  fliest  to  thy 
cave  of  grief,  and  Connan  fights  thy  battles.  Resign 
to  me  these  arms  of  light.  Yield  them,  thou  chief  of 
Erin." — "  No  hero,"  replied  the  chief,  "  ever  sought 
the  arms  of  Cuthullin !  and  had  a  thousand  heroes 
sought  them,  it  were  in  vain,  thou  gloomy  youth !  1 
fled  not  to  the  cave  of  grief,  till  Erin  failed  at  her 
streams." 

"  Youth  of  the  feeble  arm,"  said  Fingal,  "  Connan, 
cease  thy  words  !  Cuthullin  is  renowned  in  battle  :  ter- 
rible over  the  world.  Often  have  I  heard  thy  fame, 
thou  stormy  chief  of  Inis-fail.  Spread  now  thy  white 
sails  for  the  isle  of  mist.  See  Bragela  leaning  on  her 
rock.  Her  tender  eye  is  in  tears,  the  winds  lift  her 
long  hair  from  her  heaving  breast.  She  listens  to  the 
breeze  of  night,  to  hear  the  voice  of  thy  rowers ;  to 
hear  the  song  of  the  sea ;  the  sound  of  thy  distant 
harps." 


FINGAL.  357 

"  Long  shall  she  listen  in  vain.  Cuthuliin  shall  never 
return.  How  can  I  behold  Bragela,  to  raise  the  sigh 
of  her  breast?  Fingal,  I  was  always  victorious,  in 
battles  of  other  spears." — "  And  hereafter  thou  shall 
be  victorious,"  said  Fingal  of  generous  shells.  "  The 
fame  of  Cuthuliin  shall  grow,  like  the  branchy  tree  of 
Cronia.  Many  battles  await  thee,  O  chief!  Many 
shall  be  the  wounds  of  thy  hand  !  Bring  hither,  Oscar, 
the  deer  !  Prepare  the  feast  of  shells.  Let  our  souls 
rejoice  after  danger,  and  our  friends  delight  in  our 
presence." 

We  sat.  We  feasted.  We  sung.  The  soul  of 
Cuthuliin  rose.  The  strength  of  his  arm  returned. 
Gladness  brightened  along  his  face.  Ullin  gave  the 
song  ;  Carril  raised  the  voice.  I  joinea  the  bards,  and 
sung  of  battles  of  the  spear.  Battles !  where  I  often 
fought.  Now  I  fight  no  more !  The  fame  of  my 
former  deeds  is  ceased.  I  sit  forlorn  at  the  tombs  of 
my  friends ! 

Thus  the  night  passed  away  in  song.  We  brought 
back  the  morning  with  joy.  Fingal  arose  on  the  heath, 
and  shook  his  glittering  spear.  He  moved  first  to- 
wards the  plains  of  Lena.  We  followed  in  all  our 
arms 

"  Spread  the  sail,"  said  the  king,  "  seize  the  winds 
as  they  pour  from  Lena."  We  rose  on  the  wave  with 
songs.  We  rushed,  with  joy,  through  the  foam  of  the 
deep. 


LATHMON. 

ARGUMENT. 

I-athrnon,  a  British  prince,  taking  advantage  of  Fingal's  absenc« 
on  an  expedition  to  Ireland,  made  a  descent  on  Morven,  and  ad- 
vanced within  sight  of  Sehna,  the  royal  residence.  Fingal  ar- 
rived in  the  mean  time,  and  Lathmon  retreated  to  a  hill,  where 
his  army  was  surprised  by  night,  and  himself  taken  prisoner  by 
Ossian  and  Gaul  the  son  of  Morni.  The  poem  opens  with  the 
first  appearance  of  Fingal  on  the  coast  of  Morven,  and  ends,  it 
may  be  supposed,  about  noon  the  next  day. 

SELMA,  thy  halls  are  silent.  There  is  no  sound  in 
the  woods  of  Morven.  The  wave  tumbles  along  on 
the  coast.  The  silent  beam  of  the  sun  is  on  the  field. 
The  daughters  of  Morven  come  forth,  like  the  bow  of 
the  shower ;  they  look  towards  green  Erin  for  the 
white  sails  of  the  king.  He  had  promised  to  return, 
but  the  winds  of  the  north  arose  ! 

Who  pours  from  the  eastern  hill,  like  a  stream  of 
darkness  ?  It  is  the  host  of  Lathmon.  He  has  heard 
of  the  absence  of  Fingal.  He  trusts  in  the  winds  of 
the  north.  His  soul  brightens  with  joy.  Why  dost 
thou  come,  O  Lathmon  ?  The  mighty  are  not  in  Sel- 
ma.  Why  comest  thou  with  thy  forward  spear  ?  Will 
the  daughters  of  Mo  *ven  fight  ?  But  stop,  O  mighty 
stream,  in  thy  course  !  Does  not  Lathmon  behold  these 
sails  ?  Why  dost  thou  vanish,  Lathmon,  like  the  mist 
of  the  lake  1  But  the  squally  storm  is  behind  tliee ; 
Fingal  pursues  thy  steps  ! 

The  king  of  Morven  had  started  from  sleep,  as  we 
rolled  on  the  dark-blue  wave.  He  stretched  his  hand 
to  his  spear,  his  heroes  rose  around.  We  knew  that 
he  had  seen  his  fathers,  for  they  often  descended  to  his 
dreams,  when  the  sword  of  the  foe  rose  over  the  land  • 


LATHMON.  359 

and  the  battle  darkened  before  us.  "  Whither  hast 
thou  fled,  O  wind  ?"  said  the  king  of  Morven.  "  Dost 
thou  rustle  in  the  chambers  of  the  south  ?  pursuest  thou 
the  shower  in  other  lands  ?  Why  dost  thou  not  come 
to  my  sails  ?  to  the  blue  face  of  my  seas  ?  The  foe  is 
in  the  land  of  Morven,  and  the  king  is  absent  far.  But 
let  each  bind  on  his  mail,  and  each  assume  his  shield. 
Stretch  every  spear  over  the  wave ;  let  every  sword 
be  unsheathed.  Lathmon  is  before  us  with  his  host ; 
he  that  fled  from  Fingal  on  the  plains  of  Lona.  But 
he  returns  like  a  collected  stream,  and  his  roar  is  be- 
tween our  hills." 

Such  were  the  words  of  Fingal.  We  rushed  into 
Carmon's  bay.  Ossian  ascended  the  hill !  he  thrice 
struck  his  bossy  shield.  The  rock  of  Morven  replied : 
the  bounding  roes  came  forth.  The  foe  was  troubled 
in  my  presence :  he  collected  his  darkened  host.  I 
stood  like  a  cloud  on  the  hill,  rejoicing  in  the  arms  of 
my  youth. 

Morni  sat  beneath  a  tree,  on  the  roaring  waters  of 
Strumon  :  his  locks  of  age  are  gray :  he  leans  forward 
on  his  staff;  young  Gaul  is  near  the  hero,  hearing  the 
battles  of  his  father.  Often  did  he  rise  in  the  fire  of 
his  soul,  at  the  mighty  deeds  of  Morni.  The  aged 
heard  the  sound  of  Ossian's  shield ;  he  knew  the  sign 
of  war.  He  started  at  once  from  his  place.  His  gray 
hair  parted  on  his  back.  He  remembered  the  deeds 
of  other  years. 

"  My  son,"  he  said,  to  fair-haired  Gaul,  "  I  hear  the 
sound  of  war.  The  king  of  Morven  is  returned  ;  his 
signals  are  spread  on  the  wind.  Go  to  the  halls  of 
Strumon  ;  bring  his  arms  to  Morni.  Bring  the  shield 
of  my  father's  latter  years,  for  my  arm  begins  to  fail. 
Take  thou  thy  armor,  O  Gaul !  and  rush  to  the  first 
of  thy  battles.  Let  thine  arm  reach  to  the  renown  of 
thy  fathers.  Be  thy  course  in  the  field  like  the  eagle's 


360  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

wing.  Why  shouldst  thou  fear  death,  my  son?  the 
valiant  fall  with  fame ;  their  shields  turn  the  dark 
stream  of  danger  away  ;  renown  dwells  on  their  aged 
hairs.  Dost  thou  not  see,  O  Gaul !  how  the  steps  of 
my  age  are  honored  ?  Morni  moves  forth,  and  the 
young  men  meet  him,  with  silent  joy,  on  his  course. 
But  I  never  fled  from  danger,  my  son !  my  sword 
lightened  through  the  darkness  of  war.  The  stranger 
melted  before  me ;  the  mighty  were  blasted  in  my 
presence." 

Gaul  brought  the  arms  to  Morni :  the  aged  warrior 
is  covered  with  steel.  He  took  the  spear  in  his  hand, 
which  was  stained  with  the  blood  of  the  valiant.  He 
came  towards  Fingal ;  his  son  attended  his  steps.  The 
son  of  Comhal  arose  before  him  with  joy,  when  he 
came  in  his  locks  of  age. 

"  Chief  of  the  roaring  Strumon  !"  said  the  rising 
soul  of  Fingal ;  "  do  I  behold  thee  in  arms,  after  thy 
strength  has  failed  ?  Often  has  Morni  shone  in  fight, 
like  the  beam  of  the  ascending  sun  ;  when  he  disperses 
the  storms  of  the  hill,  and  brings  peace  to  the  glitter- 
ing fields.  But  why  didst  thou  not  rest  in  thine  age  ? 
Thy  renown  is  in  the  song.  The  people  behold  thee, 
and  bless  the  departure  of  mighty  Morni.  Why  didst 
thou  not  rest  in  thine  age  ?  The  foe  will  vanish  before 
Fingal !" 

"  Son  of  Comhal,"  replied  the  chief,  "  the  strength 
of  Morni's  arm  has  failed.  I  attempt  to  draw  the  sword 
of  my  youth,  but  it  remains  in  its  place.  I  throw  the 
spear,  but  it  falls  short  of  the  mark.  I  feel  the  weight 
of  my  shield.  We  decay  like  the  grass  of  the  hill ; 
our  strength  returns  no  more.  I  have  a  son,  O  Fingal ! 
his  soul  has  delighted  in  Morni's  deeds ;  but  his  sword 
has  not  been  lifted  against  a  foe,  neither  has  his  fame 
begun.  I  come  with  him  to -the  war;  to  direct  his 
*rm  in  fight.  His  renown  will  be  a  light  to  my  soul. 


LAT11MON.  361 

in  the  dark  hour  of  my  departure.  O  that  the  name 
of  Morni  were  forgot  among  the  people !  that  the  he- 
roes would  only  say,  '  Behold  the  father  of  Gaul !'  " 

"KingofStrumon,"  Fingal  replied,  "  Gaul  shall  lift 
the  sword  in  fight.  But  he  shall  lift  it  before  Fingal ; 
my  arm  shall  defend  his  youth.  But  rest  thou  in  the 
halls  of  Selma,  and  hear  of  our  renown.  Bid  the  harp 
to  be  strung,  and  the  voice  of  the  bard  to  arise,  that 
those  who  fall  may  rejoice  in  their  fame,  and  the  sou! 
of  Morni  brighten  with  joy.  Ossian,  thou  hast  fou'/h*. 
in  battles :  the  blood  of  strangers  is  on  thy  spear :  thy 
course  be  with  Gaul  in  the  strife  ;  but  depart  not  from 
the  side  of  Fingal,  lest  the  foe  should  find  you  alone, 
and  your  fame  fail  in  my  presence." 

"  *  I  saw  Gaul  in  his  arms  ;  my  soul  was  mixed  with 
his.  The  fire  of  the  battle  was  in  his  eyes  !  he  looked 
to  the  foe  with  joy.  We  spoke  the  words  of  friendship 
in  secret ;  the  lightning  of  our  swords  poured  together ; 
for  we  drew  them  behind  the  wood,  and  tried  the 
strength  of  our  arms  on  the  empty  air  !" 

Night  came  down  on  Morven.  Fingal  sat  at  the 
beam  of  the  oak.  Morni  sat  by  his  side  with  all  his 
gray-waving  locks.  Their  words  were  of  other  times, 
of  the  mighty  deeds  of  their  fathers.  Three  bards,  at 
times,  touched  the  harp  :  Ullin  was  near  with  his  song. 
He  sung  of  the  mighty  Comhal ;  but  darkness  gathered 
on  Morni's  brow.  He  rolled  his  red  eye  on  Ullin  :  at 
once  ceased  the  song  of  the  bard.  Fingal  observed 
the  aged  hero,  and  he  mildly  spoke  :  "  Chief  of  Stru- 
mon,  why  that  darkness  ?  Let  the  days  of  other  years 
be  forgot.  Our  fathers  contended  in  war ;  but  we 
meet  together  at  the  feast.  Our  swords  are  turned  on 
the  foe  of  our  .\and :  he  melts  before  us  on  the  field. 


*  Ossian  speaks, 
31 


362  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAM. 

Let  the  days  of  our  fathers  be  forgot,  hero  of  mossy 
Strumon !" 

'  King  of  Monren,"  replied  the  chief,  "  I  remember 
thy  father  with  joy.  He  was  terrible  in  battle,  the  rage 
of  the  chief  was  deadly.  My  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
when  the  king  of  heroes  fell.  The  valiant  fall,  O  Fin- 
gal  !  the  feeble  remain  on  the  hills !  How  many  heroes 
have  passed  away  in  the  days  of  Morni !  Yet  I  did  not 
shun  the  battle  ;  neither  did  I  fly  from  the  strife  of  the 
valiant.  Now  let  the  friends  of  Fingal  rest,  for  the 
night  is  around,  that  they  may  rise  with  strength  to 
battle  against  car-borne  Lathmon.  1  hear  the  sound 
of  his  host,  like  thunder  moving  on  the  hills.  Ossian! 
and  fair-haired  Gaul !  ye  are  young  and  swift  in  the 
race.  Observe  the  foes  of  Fingal  from  that  woody 
hill.  But  approach  them  not :  your  fathers  are  near 
to  shield  you.  Let  not  your  fame  fall  at  once.  The 
valor  of  youth  may  fail !" 

We  heard  the  words  of  the  chief  with  joy.  We 
moved  in  the  clang  of  our  arms.  Our  steps  are  on 
the  woody  hill.  Heaven  burns  with  all  its  stars.  The 
meteors  of  death  fly  over  the  field.  The  distant  noise 
of  the  foe  reached  our  ears.  It  was  then  Gaul  spoke, 
in  his  valor  :  his  hand  half  unsheathed  his  sword. 

"  Son  of  Fingal !"  he  said,  "  why  burns  the  soul  of 
Gaul  ?  my  heart  beats  high.  My  steps  are  disordered  ; 
my  hand  trembles  on  my  sword.  When  I  look  to- 
wards  the  foe,  my  soul  lightens  before  me.  I  see  their 
sleeping  host.  Tremble  thus  the  souls  of  the  valiant 
in  battles  of  the  spear  ?  How  would  the  soul  of  Morni 
rise  if  we  should  rush  on  the  foe  ?  Our  renown  would 
grow  in  song :  our  steps  would  be  stately  in  the  eyes 
of  the  brave." 

"  Son  of  Morni,"  I  replied,  "my  soul  delights  in  war. 
I  delight  to  shine  in  battle  alone,  to  give  my  name  to 
the  bards.  But  what  if  the  foe  should  prevail  ?  can  I 


LATHMON.  363 

behold  the  eyes  of  the  king  ?  They  are  terrible  in  his 
displeasure,  and  like  the  flames  of  death.  But  I  will 
not  behold  them  in  his  wrath !  Ossian  shall  prevail  or 
fall.  But  shall  the  fame  of  the  vanquished  rise  ?  They 
pass  like  a  shade  away.  But  the  fame  of  Ossian  sha! 
rise !  His  deeds  shall  be  like  his  father's.  Let  us 
rush  in  oar  arms ;  son  of  Morni,  let  us  rush  to  fight. 
Gaul,  if  thou  shouldst  return,  go  to  Selma's  lofty  hall. 
Tell  to  Everallin  that  I  fell  with  fame ;  carry  this 
eword  to  Branno's  daughter.  Let  her  give  it  to  Oscar, 
when  the  years  of  his  youth  shall  arise." 

"  Son  of  Fingal,"  Gaul  replied  with  a  sigh,  "  shall 
I  return  after  Ossian  is  low  ?  What  would  my  father 
say  ?  what  Fingal,  the  king  of  men  ?  The  feeble 
would  turn  their  eyes  and  say,  '  Behold  Gaul,  who  left 
his  friend  in  his  blood  !'  Ye  shall  not  behold  me,  ye 
feeble,  but  in  the  midst  of  my  renown  !  Ossian,  I  have 
heard  from  my  father  the  mighty  deeds  of  heroes ; 
their  mighty  deeds  when  alone  !  for  the  soul  increases 
in  danger !" 

"  Son  of  Morni,"  I  replied,  and  strode  before  him  on 
the  heath,  "  our  fathers  shall  praise  our  valor  when 
they  mourn  our  fall.  A  beam  of  gladness  shall  rise 
on  their  souls,  when  their  eyes  are  full  of  tears.  They 
will  say,  '  Our  sons  have  not  fallen  unknown  :  they 
spread  death  around  them.'  But  why  should  we  think 
of  the  narrow  house  ?  The  sword  defends  the  brave. 
But  death  pursues  the  flight  of  the  feeble ;  their  re- 
nown is  never  heard." 

We  rushed  forward  through  night ;  we  came  to  the 
roar  of  a  stream,  which  bent  its  blue  course  round  the 
foe,  through  trees  that  echoed  to  its  sound.  We  came 
to  the  bank  of  the  stream,  and  saw  the  sleeping  host. 
Their  fires  were  decayed  on  the  plain :  the  lonely 
steps  of  their  scouts  were  distant  far.  I  stretched  my 
spear  before  me,  to  support  my  steps  over  the  stream. 


364  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAI*. 

But  Gaul  took  my  hand,  and  spoke  the  words  of  the 
brave.  "  Shall  the  son  of  Fingal  rush  on  the  sleeping 
foe  ?  Shall  he  come  like  a  blast  by  night,  when  it 
overturns  the  young  trees  in  secret  ?  Fingal  did  not 
receive  his  fame,  nor  dwells  renown  on  the  gray  hairs 
of  Morni,  for  actions  like  these.  Strike,  Ossian,  strike 
the  shield,  and  let  their  thousands  rise  !  Let  them  meet 
Gaul  in  his  first  battle,  that  he  may  try  the  strength 
of  his  arm." 

My  soul  rejoiced  over  the  warrior  ;  my  bursting 
tears  came  down.  "And  the  foe  shall  meet  thee, 
Gaul,"  I  said:  "the  fame  of  Morni's  son  shall  arise. 
But  rush  not  too  far,  my  hero :  let  the  gleam  of  thy 
steel  be  near  to  Ossian.  Let  our  hands  join  in  slaugh- 
ter. Gaul  !  dost  thou  not  behold  that  rock  ?  Its  gray 
side  dimly  gleams  to  the  stars.  Should  the  foe  prevail, 
let  our  back  be  towards  the  rock.  Then  shall  they  fear 
to  approach  our  spears  ;  for  death  is  in  our  hands !" 

I  struck  thrice  my  echoing  shield.  The  startling 
foe  arose.  We  rushed  on  in  the  sound  of  our  arms. 
Their  crowded  steps  fly  over  the  heath.  They  thought 
that  the  mighty  Fingal  was  come.  The  strength  of 
their  arms  withered  away.  The  sound  of  their  flight 
was  like  that  of  flame,  when  it  rushes  through  the 
blasted  groves.  It  was  then  the  spear  of  Gaul  flew  in 
its  strength  ;  it  was  then  his  sword  arose.  Cremor 
fell ;  and  mighty  Leth  !  Dunthormo  struggled  in  his 
blood.  The  steel  rushed  through  Crotho's  side,  as  bent 
he  rose  on  his  spear ;  the  black  stream  poured  from 
the  wound,  and  hissed  on  the  half-extinguished  oak. 
Cathmin  saw  the  steps  of  the  hero  behind  him :  he 
ascended  a  blasted  tree  ;  but  the  spear  pierced  him 
from  behind.  Shrieking,  panting,  he  fell.  Moss  and 
withered  branches  pursue  his  fall,  and  strew  the  blue 
arms  of  Gaul. 

Such  were  thy  deeds,  son  of  Morni,  in  the  first  of 


LATHMON.  365 

thy  battles.  Nor  slept  the  sword  by  thy  side,  thou 
last  of  Fingal's  race  !  Ossian  rushed  forward  in  his 
strength  ;  the  people  fell  before  him  ;  as  the  grass  by 
the  staff  of  the  boy,  when  he  whistles  along  the  field, 
and  the  gray  beard  of  the  thistle  falls.  But  careless 
the  youth  moves  on  ;  his  steps  are  towards  the  desert. 
Gray  morning  rose  around  us ;  the  winding  streams 
are  bright  along  the  heath.  The  foe  gathered  on  a 
hill ;  and  the  rage  of  Lathmon  rose.  He  bent  the  red 
eye  of  his  wrath  :  he  is  silent  in  his  rising  grief.  He 
often  struck  his  bossy  shield  :  and  his  steps  are  unequal 
on  the  heath.  I  saw  the  distant  darkness  of  the  hero, 
and  I  spoke  to  Morni's  son. 

"  Car-borne  chief  of  Strumon,  dost  thou' behold  the 
foe  ?  They  gather  on  the  hill  in  their  wrath.  Let  our 
steps  be  toward  the  king.*  He  shall  rise  in  his  strength, 
and  the  host  of  Lathmon  vanish.  Our  fame  is  around 
us,  warrior  ;  the  eyes  of  the  agedf  will  rejoice.  But 
let  us  fly,  son  of  Morni,  Lathmon  descends  the  hill." 
"  Then  let  our  steps  be  slow,"  replied  the  fair-haired 
Gaul ;  "  lest  the  foe  say  with  a  smile,  '  Behold  the 
warriors  of  night !  They  are,  like  ghosts,  terrible  in 
darkness  ;  they  melt  away  before  the  beam  of  the  east.' 
Ossian,  take  the  shield  of  Gormar,  who  fell  beneath 
thy  spear.  The  aged  heroes  will  rejoice,  beholding 
the  deeds  of  their  sons." 

Such  were  our  words  on  the  plain,  when  Sulmath 
came  to  car-borne  Lathmon  :  Sulmath  chief  of  Datha, 
at  the  dark-rolling  stream  of  Duvranna.  "  Why  dost 
thou  not  rush,  son  of  Nuath,  with  a  thousand  of  thy 
heroes  ?  Why  dost  thou  not  descend  with  thy  host 
before  the  warriors  fly  ?  Their  blue  arms  are  beam- 
ing  to  the  rising  light,  and  their  steps  are  before  us  on 
the  heath  !" 

•  Fingal.  t  Fingal  and  Morni. 

31* 


366  THE  FORMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

"  Son  of  the  feeble  hand,"  said  Lathmon,  "  shall  my 
host  descend  ?  They  are  but  two,  son  of  Dutha  !  shall 
a  thousand  lift  the  steel  ?  Nu'ath  would  mourn  in  his 
hall,  for  the  departure  of  his  fame.  His  eyes  would 
turn  from  Lathmon,  when  the  tread  of  liis  feet  ap- 
proached. Go  thou  to  the  heroes,  chief  of  Dutha  !  I 
behold  the  stately  steps  of  Ossian.  His  fame  is  worthy 
of  my  steel  !  let  us  contend  in  fight." 

The  noble  Sulmath  came.  I  rejoiced  in  the  words 
of  the  king.  I  raised  the  shield  on  my  arm  :  Gaul 
placed  in  my  hand  the  sword  of  Morni.  We  returned  to 
the  murmuring  stream  ;  Lathmon  came  down  in  his 
strength.  His  dark  host  rolled,  like  clouds,  behind 
him  ;  but  the  son  of  Nu'ath  was  bright  in  his  steel. 

"  Son  of  Fingal,"  said  the  hero,  "  thy  fame  has 
grown  on  our  fall.  How  many  lie  there  of  my  people 
by  thy  hand,  thou  king  of  men  !  Lift  now  thy  spear 
against  Lathmon  ;  lay  the  son  of  Nuath  low  !  Lay  him 
low  among  his  warriors,  or  thou  thyself  must  fall !  It 
shall  never  be  told  in  my  halls,  that  my  people  fell  in 
my  presence  :  that  they  fell  in  the  presence  of  Lath- 
mon when  his  sword  rested  by  his  side  :  the  blue  eyes 
of  Cutha  would  roll  in  tears ;  her  steps  be  lonely  in 
the  vales  of  Dunlathmon  !" 

"  Neither  shall  it  be  told,"  I  replied,  "  that  the  son 
of  Fingal  fled.  Were  his  steps  covered  with  darkness, 
yet  would  not  Ossian  fly  !  His  soul  would  meet  him 
and  say,  '  Does  the  bard  of  Selma  fear  the  foe  ?'  No  : 
he  does  not  fear  the  foe.  His  joy  is  in  the  midst  jf 
battle." 

Lathmon  came  on  with  his  spear.  He  pierced  the 
shield  of  Ossian.  I  felt  the  cold  steel  by  my  side.  I 
drew  the  sword  of  Morni.  I  cut  the  spear  in  twain. 
The  bright  point  fell  glittering  on  earth.  The  son  of 
Nuath  burnt  in  his  wrath.  He  lifted  high  his  sounding 
shield,  His  dark  eyes  rolled  above  it,  as,  bending  for- 


LATHMON.  367 

ward,  it  shone  like  a  gate  of  brass.  But  Ossian's  spear 
pierced  the  brightness  of  its  bosses,  and  sunk  in  a  tree 
that  rose  behind.  The  shield  hung  on  the  quivering 
lance  !  But  Lathmon  still  advanced  !  Gaul  foresaw 
the  fall  of  the  chief.  He  stretched  his  buckler  before 
my  sword,  when  it  descended,  in  a  stream  of  light,  over 
the  king  of  Dunlathmon  ! 

Lathmon  beheld  the  son  of  Morni.  The  tear  started 
from  his  eye.  He  threw  the  sword  of  his  fathers  on 
the  earth,  and  spoke  the  words  of  the  brave. 

"  Why  should  Lathmon  fight  against  the  first  of 
men  ?  Your  souls  are  beams  from  heaven ;  your 
swords  the  flames  of  death  !  Who  can  equal  the  re- 
nown of  the  heroes,  whose  deeds  are  so  great  in  youth  ? 
O  that  ye  were  in  the  halls  of  Nuiith,  in  the  green 
dwelling  of  Lathmon  !  Then  would  my  father  say  that 
his  son  did  not  yield  to  the  weak.  But  who  comes,  a 
mighty  stream,  along  the  echoing  heath  ?  The  little 
hills  are  troubled  before  him.  A  thousand  ghosts  are 
on  the  beams  of  his  steel ;  the  ghosts  of  those  who  are 
to  fall  by  the  king  of  resounding  Morven.  Happy  art 
thou,  O  Fingal  !  thy  son  shall  fight  thy  wars.  They 
go  forth  before  thee  :  they  return  with  the  steps  of 
their  renown  !" 

Fingal  came  in  his  mildness,  rejoicing  in  secret  over 
the  deeds  of  his  son.  Morni's  face  brightened  with 
gladness.  His  aged  eyes  look  faintly  through  tears 
of  joy.  We  came  to  the  halls  of  Selma.  We  sat 
around  the  feasts  of  shells.  The  maids  of  song  came 
in  to  our  presence,  and  the  mildly-blushing  Everallin  ! 
Her  hair  spreads  on  her  neck  of  snow,  her  eye  rolls 
in  secret  on  Ossian.  She  touched  the  harp  of  music ! 
we  blessed  the  daughter  of  Branno  ! 

Fingal  rose  in  his  place,  and  spoke  to  Lathmon,  king 
of  spears.  The  sword  of  Trenmor  shook  by  his  side, 
as  high  he  raised  his  mighty  arm.  "  Son  of  Nuath,' 


368  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

he  said,  "  why  dost  thou  search  for  fame  in  Morven  ? 
We  are  not  of  the  race  of  the  feeble  ;  our  swords  gleam 
not  over  the  weak.  When  did  we  rouse  thee,  O  Lath- 
mon,  with  the  sound  of  war  ?  Fingal  does  not  delight 
in  battle,  though  his  arm  is  strong  !  My  renown  grows 
on  the  fall  of  the  haughty.  The  light  of  my  steel  pours 
on  the  proud  in  arms.  The  battle  comes  !  and  the 
tombs  of  the  valiant  rise  ;  the  tombs  of  my  people  rise, 
O  my  fathers  !  I  at  last  must  remain  alone  !  But  I  will 
remain  renowned :  the  departure  of  my  soul  shall  be  a 
stream  of  light.  Lathmon  !  retire  to  thy  place !  Turn 
thy  battles  to  other  lands  !  The  race  of  Morven  are 
renowned  ;  their  foes  are  the  sons  of  the  unhappy." 


DAR-THULA. 


ARGUMENT. 

It  may  not  be  improper  here  to  give  the  story  which  is  the  founda- 
tion of  this  poem,  as  it  is  handed  down  by  tradition.  Usnoth, 
lord  of  Etha,  which  is  probably  that  part  of  Argyleshire  which  is 
near  Loch  Eta,  an  arm  of  the  sea  in  Lorn,  had  three  sons,  Na- 
thos, Althos,  and  Ardan,  by  Slissama,  the  daughter  of  Semo,  and 
sister  to  the  celebrated  Cuthullin.  The  three  brothers,  when  very 
young,  were  sent  over  to  Ireland  by  their  father,  to  learn  the  use 
of  arms  under  their  uncle  Cuthullin,  who  made  a  great  figure  in 
that  kingdom.  They  were  just  landed  in  Ulster,  when  the  news 
of  Cuthullin's  death  arrived.  Nathos.  though  very  young,  took 
the  command  of  Cuthullin's  army,  made  head  against  Cairbar  the 
usurper,  and  defeated  him  in  several  battles.  Cairbar  at  last,  hav- 
ing tound  means  to  murder  Corrnac,  the  lawful  king,  the  army 
of  Nathos  shifted  sides,  and  he  himself  was  obliged  to  return  into 
Ulster,  in  order  to  pass  over  into  Scotland. 

Dar-thula,  the  daughter  of  Colla,  with  whom  Cairbar  was  in  love, 
resided  at  that  time  in  Selama,  a  castle  in  Ulster.  She  saw,  fell 
in  love,  and  tied  with  Nathos ;  but  a  storm  rising  at  sea,  they 
were  unfortunately  driven  back  on  that  part  of  the  coast  of  Ulster, 
where  Cairbar  was  encamped  with  his  army.  The  three  brothers, 
after  having  defended  themselves  for  some  time  with  great  bra- 
very, were  overpowered  and  slain,  and  the  unfortunate  Dar-thula 
killed  herself  upon  the  body  of  her  beloved  Nathos. 

The  poem  opens  on  the  night  preceding  the  death  of  the  sons  of 
Usnoth,  and  brings  in,  by  way  of  episode,  what  passed  before. 
It  relates  the  death  of  Dar-thula  differently  from  the  common 
tradition.  This  account  is  the  most  probable,  as  suicide  seema 
to  have  been  unknown  in  those  early  times,  for  no  traces  of  it 
are  found  in  the  old  poetry. 

DAUGHTER  of  heaven,  fair  art  thou  !  the  silence  of 
ihj  face  is  pleasant !  Thou  comest  forth  in  loveliness. 
The  stars  attend  thy  blue  course  in  the  east.  The 
clouds  rejoice  in  thy  presence,  O  moon  !  They 
brighten  their  dark-brown  sides.  Who  is  like  thee  in 
heaven,  light  of  the  silent  night?  The  stars  are 
ashamed  in  thy  presence.  They  turn  away  their 
sparkling  eyes.  Whither  dost  thou  retire  from  thy 


370  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSLA>. 

course  when  the  darkness  of  thy  countenance  grows  ? 
Hast  thou  thy  hall,  like  Ossian  ?  Dwellest  thou  in  the 
shadow  of  grief  ?  Have  thy  sisters  fallen  from  heaven  1 
Are  they  who  rejoiced  with  thee,  at  night,  no  more  ? 
Yes,  they  have  fallen,  fair  light !  and  thou  dost  often 
retire  to  mourn.  But  thou  thyself  shalt  fail  one  night, 
and  leave  thy  blue  path  in  heaven.  The  stars  will 
then  lift  their  heads  :  they  who  were  ashamed  in  thy 
presence,  will  rejoice.  Thou  art  now  clothed  with  thy 
brightness.  Look  from  thy  gates  in  the  sky.  Burst 
the  cvoud,  O  wind  !  that  the  daughters  of  night  may 
look  forth ;  that  the  shaggy  mountains  may  brighten, 
and  the  ocean  roll  its  white  waves  in  light ! 

Nathos  is  on  the  deep,  and  Althos.  that  beam  of 
youth  !  Ardan  is  near  his  brothers.  They  move  in 
the  gloom  of  their  course.  The  sons  of  Usnoth  move 
in  darkness,  from  the  wrath  of  Cairbar  of  Erin.  Who 
is  that,  dim  by  their  side  ?  The  night  has  covered  her 
beauty  !  Her  hair  sighs  on  ocean's  wind.  Her  robe 
streams  in  dusky  wreaths.  She  is  like  the  fair  spirit 
of  heaven  in  the  midst  of  the  shadowy  mist.  Who  is 
it  but  Dar-thula,  the  first  of  Erin's  maids  ?  She  has 
fled  from  the  love  of  Cairbar,  with  blue-shielded  Nathos. 
But  the  winds  deceive  thee,  O  Dar-thula  !  They  deny 
the  woody  Etha  to  thy  sails.  These  are  not  the  moun- 
tains of  Nathos  ;  nor  is  that  the  roar  of  his  climbing 
waves.  The  halls  of  Cairbar  are  near  :  the  towers  of 
the  foe  lift  their  heads  !  Erin  stretches  its  green  head 
into  the  sea.  Tura's  bay  receives  the  ship.  Where 
have  ye  been,  ye  southern  winds,  when  the  sons  of  my 
love  were  deceived  ?  But  ye  have  been  sporting  on 
the  plains,  pursuing  the  thistle's  beard.  O  that  ye  had 
been  rustling  in  the  sails  of  Nathos,  till  the  hills  of 
Etha  arose  !  till  they  arose  in  their  clouds,  and  saw 
their  returning  chief!  Long  hast  thou  been  absent, 
Nathos  !  the  day  of  thy  return  is  past ! 


DAR-THULA.  371 

But  the  land  of  strangers  saw  thee  lovely !  thou 
wast  lovely  in  the  eyes  of  Dar-thula.  Thy  face  was 
like  the  light  of  the  morning.  Thy  hair  like  the  ra- 
ven's wing.  Thy  soul  was  generous  and  mild,  like  the 
hour  of  the  setting  sun.  Thy  words  were  the  gale  of 
the  reeds  ;  the  gliding  stream  of  Lora !  But  when  the 
rage  of  battle  rose,  thou  wast  a  sea  in  a  storm.  The 
clang  of  thy  arms  was  terrible :  the  host  vanished  at 
the  sound  of  thy  course.  It  was  then  Dar-thula  beheld 
thee,  from  the  top  of  her  mossy  tower ;  from  the  tower 
of  Selama,  where  her  fathers  dwelt. 

"  Lovely  art  thou,  O  stranger !"  she  said,  for  her 
trembling  soul  arose.  "  Fair  art  thou  in  thy  battles, 
friend  of  the  fallen  Cormac  !  Why  dost  thou  rush  on 
in  thy  valor,  youth  of  the  ruddy  look  ?  Few  are  thy 
hands  in  fight  against  the  dark-brown  Cairbar  !  O  that 
I  might  be  freed  from  his  love,  that  I  might  rejoice  in 
the  presence  of  Nathos  !  Blest  are  the  rocks  of  Etha ! 
they  will  behold  his  steps  at  the  chase ;  they  will  see 
his  white  bosom,  when  the  winds  lift  his  flowing  hair!" 
Such  were  thy  words,  Dar-thula,  in  Selama's  mossy 
towers.  But  now  the  night  is  around  thee.  The  winds 
have  deceived  thy  sails — the  winds  have  deceived  thy 
sails,  Dar-thula  !  Their  blustering  sound  is  high.  Cease 
a  little  while,  O  north  wind !  Let  me  hear  the  voice 
of  the  lovely.  Thy  voice  is  lovely,  Dar-thula,  between 
the  rustling  blasts ! 

"  Are  these  the  rocks  of  Nathos  ?"  she  said,  "  this 
the  roaring  of  his  mountain  streams  ?  Comes  that 
beam  of  light  from  Usnoth's  nightly  hall  ?  The  mist 
spreads  around  •  the  beam  is  feeble  and  distant  far. 
But  the  light  of  Dar-thula's  soul  dwells  in  the  chief  of 
Etha !  Son  of  the  generous  Usnoth,  why  that  broken 
fiigh  ?  Are  we  in  the  land  of  strangers,  chief  of  echo- 
ing Etha  ?" 

"  These  are  not  the  rocks  of  Nathos,"  he  replied, 


372  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAM. 

"  nor  this  the  roar  of  his  stream.  No  light  comes 
from  Etha's  hall,  for  they  are  distant  far.  We  are  in 
the  land  of  strangers,  in  the  land  of  cruel  Cairbar. 
The  winds  have  deceived  us,  Dar-thula.  Erin  lifts 
here  her  hills.  Go  towards  the  north,  Althos :  be  thy 
steps,  Ardan,  along  the  coast ;  that  the  foe  may  not 
come  in  darkness,  and  our  hopes  of  Etha  fail.  I  will 
go  towards  that  mossy  tower,  to  see  who  dwells  about 
the  beam.  Rest,  Dar-thula,  on  the  shore !  rest  in 
peace,  thou  lovely  light !  the  sword  of  Nathos  is  around 
thee,  like  the  lightning  of  heaven !" 

He  went.  She  sat  alone :  she  heard  the  rolling  of 
the  wave.  The  big  tear  is  in  her  eye.  She  looks  for 
returning  Nathos.  Her  soul  trembles  at  the  olast. 
She  turns  her  ear  towards  the  tread  of  his  feet.  The 
tread  of  his  feet  is  not  heard.  "  Where  art  thou,  son 
of  my  love !  The  roar  of  the  blast  is  around  me. 
Dark  is  the  cloudy  night.  But  Nathos  docs  not  return. 
What  detains  thee,  chief  of  Etha  ?  Have  the  foes  met 
the  hero  in  the  strife  of  the  night  ?" 

He  returned ;  but  his  face  was  dark.  He  had  seen 
his  departed  friend !  It  was  the  wall  of  Tura.  The 
ghost  of  Cuthullin  stalked  there  alone  ;  the  sighing  of 
his  breast  was  frequent.  The  decayed  flame  of  his 
eyes  was  terrible !  His  spear  was  a  column  of  mist. 
The  stars  looked  dim  through  his  form.  His  voice 
was  like  hollow  wind  in  a  cave :  his  eye  a  light  seen 
afar.  He  told  the  tale  of  grief.  The  soul  of  Nathos 
was  sad,  like  the  sun  in  the  day  of  mist,  when  his  face 
is  watery  and  dim. 

"  Why  art  thou  sad,  O  Nathos !"  said  the  lovely 
daughter  of  Colla.  "  Thou  art  a  pillow  of  light  to 
Dar-thula.  The  joy  of  her  eyes  is  in  Etha's  chief. 
Where  is  my  friend,  but  Nathos  ?  My  father,  my 
brother  is  fallen  !  Silence  dwells  on  Selama.  Sadness 
spreads  on  the  blue  streams  of  my  land.  My  friends 


DAR-THULA.  373 

have  fallen  with  Cormac.  The  mighty  were  slain  in 
the  battles  of  Erin.  Hear,  son  of  Usnoth !  hear,  O 
Nathos  !  my  tale  of  grief. 

"  Evening  darkened  on  the  plain.  The  blue  streams 
failed  before  mine  eyes.  The  unfrequent  blast  came 
rustling  in  the  tops  of  Selama's  groves.  My  seat  was 
beneath  a  tree,  on  the  walls  of  my  fathers.  Truthil 
past  before  my  soul ;  the  brother  of  my  love  :  he  that 
was  absent  in  battle  against  the  haughty  Cairbar ! 
Bending  on  his  spear,  the  gray-haired  Colla  came.  His 
downcast  face  is  dark,  and  sorrow  dwells  in  his  soul. 
His  sword  is  on  the  side  of  the  hero ;  the  helmet  of 
his  fathers  on  his  head.  The  battle  grows  in  his 
breast.  He  strives  to  hide  the  tear. 

" '  Dar-thula,  my  daughter,'  he  said,  '  thou  art  the 
last  of  Colla's  race  !  Truthil  is  fallen  in  battle.  The 
chief  of  Selama  is  no  more !  Cairbar  comes,  with  his 
thousands,  towards  Selama's  walls.  Colla  will  meet 
his  pride,  and  revenge  his  son.  But  where  shall  I  find 
thy  safety,  Dar-thula  with  the  dark-brown  hair  !  thou 
art  lovely  as  the  sunbeam  of  heaven,  and  thy  friends 
are  low  !'  '  Is  the  son  of  battle  fallen  ?'  I  said,  with  a 
bursting  sigh.  '  Ceased  the  generous  soul  of  Truthil  to 
lighten  through  the  field  ?  My  safety,  Colla,  is  in  that 
bow.  I  have  learned  to  pierce  the  deer.  Is  not  Cair- 
bar like  the  hart  of  the  desert,  father  of  fallen  Truthil  ?' 

"  The  face  of  age  brightened  with  joy.  The  crowd- 
ed tears  of  his  eyes  poured  down.  The  lips  of  Colla 
trembled.  His  gray  beard  whistled  in  the  blast. 
'  Thou  art  the  sister  of  Truthil,'  he  said  ;  '  thou  burnest 
in  the  fire  of  his  soul.  Take,  Dar-thula,  take  that 
spear,  that  brazen  shield,  that  burnished  helm ;  they 
are  the  spoils  of  a  warrior,  a  son  of  early  youth ! 
When  the  light  rises  on  Selama,  we  go  to  meet  the 
car-borne  Cairbar.  But  keep  thou  near  the  arm  of 
Colla,  beneath  the  shadow  of  my  shield.  Thy  father, 
32 


S74  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

Dar-thula.  could  once  defend  thee ;  but  age  is  trembling 
on  his  hand.  The  strength  of  his  arm  has  failed.  Hi* 
soul  is  darkened  with  grief.' 

"  We  passed  the  night  in  sorrow.  The  light  of 
morning  rose.  I  shone  in  the  arms  of  battle.  The 
gray-haired  hero  moved  before.  The  sons  of  Selama 
convened  around  the  sounding  shield  of  Colla.  But  few 
were  they  in  the  plain,  and  their  locks  were  gray.  Th(? 
youths  had  fallen  with  Truthil,  in  the  battle  of  car-borne 
Cormac.  '  Friends  of  my  youth,'  said  Colla,  '  it  was 
not  thus  you  have  seen  me  in  arms.  It  was  not  thus  I 
strode  to  battle  when  the  great  Confaden  fell.  But  ye 
are  laden  with  grief.  The  darkness  of  age  comes  like 
the  mist  of  the  desert.  My  shield  is  worn  with  years ! 
my  sword  is  fixed  in  its  place  !*  I  said  to  my  soul, 
Thy  evening  shall  be  calm  ;  thy  departure  like  a  fading 
light.  But  the  storm  has  returned.  I  bend  like  an 
aged  oak.  My  boughs  are  fallen  on  Selama.  I  trem- 
ble in  my  place.  Where  art  thou,  with  thy  fallen  he- 
roes, O  my  beloved  Truthil !  Thou  answerest  not  from 
thy  rushing  blast.  The  soul  of  thy  father  is  sad.  But 
1  will  be  sad  no  more !  Cairbar  or  Colla  must  fall ! 
I  feel  the  returning  strength  of  my  arm.  My  heart 
leaps  at  the  sound  of  war.' 

"  The  hero  drew  his  sword.  The  gleaming  blades 
of  his  people  rose.  They  moved  along  the  plain. 
Their  gray  hair  streamed  in  the  wind.  Cairbar  sat  at 
the  feast,  in  the  silent  plain  of  Lena.  He  saw  the 
coming  of  the  heroes.  He  called  his  chiefs  to  war 
Why  should  I  tell  to  Nathos  how  the  strife  of  battle 
grew  ?  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  midst  of  thousands,  liko 

*  It  was  the  custom  of  ancient  times,  that  every  warrior,  at  a 
certain  age,  or  when  he  became  unfit  for  the  field  fixed  his  arms 
in  the  great  hall,  where  the  tribes  feasted  upon  joyful  occasions. 
He  was  afterward  never  to  appear  in  battle ;  and  this  stage  of  life 
was  called  the  "  time  of  fixing  the  arms." 


DAR-THULA.  375 

the  beam  of  heaven's  fire :  it  is  beautiful,  but  terrible ; 
the  people  fall  in  its  dreadful  course.  The  spear  of 
Colla  flew.  He  remembered  the  battles  of  his  youth. 
An  arrow  came  with  its  sound.  It  pierced  the  hero's 
side.  He  fell  on  his  echoing  shield.  My  soul  started 
with  fear.  I  stretched  my  buckler  over  him :  but  my 
heaving  breast  was  seen  !  Cairbar  came  with  his  spear. 
He  beheld  Selama's  maid.  Joy  rose  on  his  dark-brown 
face.  He  stayed  his  lifted  steel.  He  raised  the  tomb 
of  Colla.  He  brought  me  weeping  to  Selama.  He 
spoke  the  words  of  love,  but  my  soul  was  sad.  I  saw 
the  shields  of  my  fathers  ;  the  sword  of  car-borne  Tru- 
thil.  I  saw  the  arms  of  the  dead  ;  the  tear  was  on  my 
cheek  !  Then  thou  didst  come,  O  Nathos  !  and  gloomy 
Cairbar  fled.  He  fled  like  the  ghost  of  the  desert  be- 
fore the  morning's  beam.  His  host  was  not  near ;  and 
feeble  was  his  arm  against  thy  steel !  Why  art  thou 
sad,  O  Nathos  ?"  said  the  lovely  daughter  of  Colla. 

"  I  have  met,"  replied  the  hero,  "  the  battle  in  my 
youth.  My  arm  could  not  lift  the  spear  when  danger 
first  arose.  My  soul  brightened  in  the  presence  of  war, 
as  the  green  narrow  vale,  when  the  sun  pours  his 
streamy  beams,  before  he  hides  his  head  in  a  storm. 
The  lonely  traveller  feels  a  mournful  joy.  He  sees  the 
larkness  that  slowly  comes.  My  soul  brightened  in 
danger  before  I  saw  Selama's  fair ;  before  I  saw  thee, 
dke  a  star  that  shines  on  the  hill  at  night ;  the  cloud 
Advances,  and  threatens  the  lovely  light !  We  are  in 
Jie  land  of  foes.  The  winds  have  deceived  us,  Dar- 
'diula !  The  strength  of  our  friends  is  not  near,  nor 
the  mountains  of  Etha.  Where  shall  I  find  thy  peace, 
daughter  of  mighty  Colla !  The  brothers  of  Nathos 
are  brave,  and  his  own  sword  has  shone  in  fight.  But 
what  are  the  sons  of  Usnoth  to  the  host  of  dark-brown 
Cairbar  !  O  that  the  winds  had  brought  thy  sails,  Oscar 
king  of  men !  Thou  didst  promise  to  come  to  the  bat- 


376  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN. 

ties  of  fallen  Cormac !  Then  would  my  hand  be  strong 
as  the  flaming  arm  of  death.  Cairbar  would  tremble 
in  his  halls,  and  peace  dwell  round  the  lovely  Dar-thula. 
But  why  dost  thou  fall,  my  soul  ?  The  sons  of  Usnoth 
may  prevail !" 

"  And  they  will  prevail,  O  Nathos !"  said  the  rising 
sou  of  the  maid.  "  Never  shall  Dar-thula  behold  the 
h  iLsj  of  gloomy  Cairbar.  Give  me  those  arms  of  brass, 
that  glitter  to  the  passing'  meteor.  I  see  them  dimly  in 
the  dark-bosomed  ship.  Dar-thula  will  enter  the  bat- 
tles of  steeL  Ghost  of  the  noble  Col  la !  do  I  behold 
thee  on  that  cloud  !  Who  is  that  dim  beside  thee  ?  Is 
it  the  car-borne  Truthil  ?  Shall  I  behold  the  halls  of 
him  that  slew  Selama's  chief?  No  :  I  will  not  behold 
them,  spirits  of  my  love  !" 

Joy  rose  in  the  face  of  Nathos  when  he  heard  the 
white-bosomed  maid.  "  Daughter  of  Selama  !  thou 
shinest  along  my  soul.  Come,  with  thy  thousands, 
Cairbar !  the  strength  of  Nathos  is  returned  !  Thou, 

0  aged  Usnoth !  shalt  not  hear  that  thy  son  has  fled. 

1  remembered  thy  words  on  Etha,  when  my  sails  began 
to  rise  :  when  I  spread  them  towards  Erin,  towards  the 
mossy  walls  of  Tura !    .'Thou  goest,'  he  said,  'O  Na- 
thos, to  the  king  of  shields !     Thou  goest  to  Cuthullin, 
chief  of  men,  who  never  fled  from  danger.     Let  not 
thine  arm  be  feeble  :  neither  be  thy  thoughts  of  flight ; 
lest  the  son  of  Semo  should  say  that  Etha's  rsce  are 
weak.     His  words  may  come  to  Usnoth,  and  sadden 
his  sou.'  in  the  hall.'     The  tear  was  on  my  father's 
cheek.     He  gave  this  shining  sword ! 

"  I  came  to  Tura's  bay  ;  but  the  halls  of  Tura  were 
silent.  I  looked  around,  and  there  was  none  to  tell  of 
the  son  of  generous  Semo.  I  went  to  the  hall  of  shells, 
where  the  arms  of  his  fathers  hung.  But  the  arms 
were  gone,  and  aged  Lamhor  sat  in  tears.  '  Whence 
are  the  arms  of  steel  ?'  said  the  rising  Lamhor.  '  The 


DAR-THULA.  377 

light  of  the  spear  has  long  been  absent  from  Tura's 
dusky  walls.  Come  ye  from  the  rolling  sea  ?  or  from 
Temora's  mournful  halls  ?' 

"  '  We  come  from  the  sea,'  I  said,  '  from  Usnoth's 
rising  towers.  We  are  the  sons  of  Slissama,  the 
daughter  of  car-borne  Semo.  Where  is  Tura's  chief, 
son  of  the  silent  hall  ?  But  why  should  Nathos  ask  ? 
for  I  behold  thy  tears.  How  did  the  mighty  fall,  son 
of  the  lonely  Tura?'  'He  fell  not,'  Lamhor  replied, 
'  like  the  silent  star  of  night,  when  it  flies  through 
darkness  and  is  no  more.  But  he  was  like  a  meteor 
lhat  shoots  into  a  distant  land.  Death  attends  its  dreary 
course.  Itself  is  the  sign  of  wars.  Mournful  are  the 
banks  of  Lego  ;  and  the  roar  of  streamy  Lara !  There 
the  hero  fell,  son  of  the  noble  Usnoth !'  '  The  hero 
fell  in  the  midst  of  slaughter,'  I  said  with  a  bursting 
sigh.  '  His  hand  was  strong  in  war.  Death  dimly 
sat  behind  his  sword.' 

"  We  came  to  Lego's  sounding  banks.  We  found 
his  rising  tomb.  His  friends  in  battle  are  there :  his 
bards  of  many  songs.  Three  days  we  mourned  over  the 
hero :  on  the  fourth  I  struck  the  shield  of  Caithbat. 
The  heroes  gathered  around  with  joy,  and  shook  their 
beamy  spears.  Corlath  was  near  with  his  host,  the 
friend  of  car-borne  Cairbar.  We  came  like  a  stream 
by  night.  His  heroes  fell  before  us.  When  the  peo- 
ple of  the  valley  rose,  they  saw  their  blood  with  morn, 
ing's  light.  But  we  rolled  away,  like  wreaths  of  rnist, 
to  Cormac's  echoing  hall.  Our  swords  rose  to  defend 
the  king.  But  Temora's  halls  were  empty.  Cormac 
l,ud  fallen  in  his  youth.  The  king  of  Erin  was  no 
more  ! 

"  Sadness  sei/ed  the  sons  of  Krin.  They  slowly, 
gloomily  retired :  like  clouds  that  long  having  threat- 
ened rain,  vanish  behind  the  hills.  The  sons  of  Us- 
noth moved,  in  their  grief,  towards  Tura's  sounding 
32* 


379  THE  POEttS  OF  OSSIAPf. 

bay.  We  passed  by  Selama.  Cairbar  retired  like 
Lena's  mist,  when  driven  before  the  winds.  It  was 
then  I  beheld  thee,  O  Dar-thula  !  like  the  light  of  Etha'3 
sun.  '  Lovely  is  that  beam !'  I  said.  The  crowded 
sigh  of  my  bosom  rose.  Thou  earnest  in  thy  beauty, 
Dar-thula,  to  Etha's  mournful  chief.  But-  the  winds 
have  deceived  us,  daughter  of  Colla.  and  the  foe  is 
near !" 

"  Yes,  the  foe  is  near,"  said  the  rushing  strength  of 
Althos.  "  I  heard  their  clanging  arms  on  the  coast. 
I  saw  the  dark  wreaths  of  Erin's  standard.  Distinct 
is  the  voice  of  Cairbar  ;  loud  as  Cromla's  falling  stream. 
He  had  seen  the  dark  ship  on  the  sea,  before  the  dusky 
night  came  down.  His  people  watch  on  Lena's  plain. 
They  lift  ten  thousand  swords."  "  And  let  them  lift 
ten  thousand  swords,"  said  Nathos  with  a  smile.  "  The 
sons  of  car-borne  Usnoth  will  never  tremble  in  danger ! 
Why  dost  thou  roll  with  all  thy  foam,  thou  roaring  sea 
of  Erin  ?  Why  do  ye  rustle  on  your  dark  wings,  ye 
whistling  storms  of  the  sky  ?  Do  ye  think,  ye  storms, 
that  ye  keep  Nathos  on  the  coast  ?  No  :  his  soul  de- 
tains him,  children  of  the  night !  Althos,  bring  my 
father's  arms :  thou  seest  them  beaming  to  the  stars. 
Bring  the  spear  of  Semo.  It  stands  in  the  dark-bosomed 
ship !" 

He  brought  the  arms.  Nathos  covered  his  limbs  in 
all  their  shining  steel.  The  stride  of  the  chief  is  lovely. 
The  joy  of  his  eyes  was  terrible.  He  looks  townrcta 
the  coming  of  Cairbar.  The  wind  is  rustling  in  his 
hair.  Dar-thula  is  silent  at  his  side.  Her  look  is  fixed 
on  the  chief.  She  strives  to  hide  the  rising  sigh.  Two 
tears  swell  in  her  radiant  eyes ! 

"  Althos  !"  said  the  chief  of  Etha,  "  I  see  a  cave  in 
that  rock.  Place  Dar-thula  there.  Let  thy  arm,  my 
brother,  be  strong.  Ardan  !  we  meet  the  foe  ;  call  to 
battle  gloomy  Cairbar.  O  that  he  came  hi  his  sound  [ 


DAR-THtJLA.  379 

ing  steel,  to  meet  the  son  of  Usnoth !  Dar-thula,  if 
thou  shalt  escape,  look  not  on  the  fallen  Nathos  !  Lift 
thy  sails,  O  Althos !  towards  the  echoing  groves  of  my 
land. 

"  Tell  the  chief  that  his  son  fell  with  fame  ;  that  my 
sword  did  not  shun  the  fight.  Tell  him  I  fell  in  the 
midst  of  thousands.  Let  the  joy  of  his  grief  be  great. 
Daughter  of  Colla !  call  the  maids  to  Etna's  echoing 
hall !  Let  their  songs  arise  for  Nathos,  when  shadowy 
autumn  returns.  O  that  the  voice  of  Cona,  that  Ossian 
might  be  heard  in  my  praise  !  then  would  my  spirit  re- 
joice in  the  midst  of  the  rushing  winds."  "  And  my 
voice  shall  praise  thee,  Nathos,  chief  of  the  woody 
Etha !  The  voice  of  Ossian  shall  rise  in  thy  praise, 
son  of  the  generous  Usnoth  !  Why  was  I  not  on  Lena 
when  the  battle  rose  ?  Then  would  the  sword  of  Os- 
sian defend  thee,  or  himself  fall  low  !" 

We  sat  that  night  in  Sclma,  round  the  strength  of 
the  shell.  The  wind  was  abroad  in  the  oaks.  The 
spirit  of  the  mountain*  roared.  The  blast  came  rus- 
tling through  the  hall,  and  gently  touched  my  harp. 
The  sound  was  mournful  and  low,  like  the  song  of 
the  tomb.  Fingal  heard  it  the  first.  The  crowded 
sighs  of  his  bosom  rose.  "  Some  of  my  heroes  are 
low,"  said  the  gray-haired  king  of  Morven.  "  I  hear 
the  sound  of  death  on  the  harp.  Ossian,  touch  the 
trembling  string.  Bid  the  sorrow  rise,  that  their  spirits 
may  fly  with  joy  to  Morven's  woody  hills  !"  I  touched 
the  harp  before  the  king  ;  tiie  sound  was  mournful  and 
low.  "  Bend  forward  from  your  clouds,"  I  said, 
"  ghosts  of  my  fathers  !  bend.  Lay  by  the  red  terror 
of  your  course.  Receive  the  fallen  chief ;  whether  he 
comes  from  a  distant  land,  or  rises  from  the  rolling  sea. 

*  By  the  spirit  of  the  mountain,  is  meant  that  deep  and  melan- 
choly sound  which  precedes  a  storm,  well  known  to  those  who  live 
in  a  nigh  country. 


380  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

Let  his  robe  of  mist  be  near ;  his  spear  that  is  formed 
of  a  cloud.  Place  an  half-extinguished  meteor  by  his 
side,  in  the  form  of  the  hero's  sword.  And,  oh  !  let 
his  countenance  be  lovely,  that  his  friends  may  delight 
in  his  presence.  Bend  from  your  clouds,"  I  said, 
"  ghosts  of  my  fathers  !  bend  !" 

Such  was  my  song  in  Selma,  to  the  lightly-trembling 
harp.  But  Nathos  was  on  Erin's  shore,  surrounded 
by  the  night.  He  heard  the  voice  of  the  foe,  amidst 
the  roar  of  tumbling  waves.  Silent  he  heard  their 
voice,  and  rested  on  his  spear  !  Morning  rose,  with 
its  beams.  The  sons  of  Erin  appear :  like  gray  rocks, 
with  all  their  trees,  they  spread  along  the  coast.  Cair- 
bar  stood  in  the  midst.  He  grimly  smiled  when  he 
saw  the  foe.  Nathos  rushed  forward  in  his  strength  : 
nor  could  Dar-thula  stay  behind.  She  came  with  the 
hero,  lifting  her  shining  spear.  "  And  who  are  these, 
in  their  armor,  in  the  pride  of  youth  ?  Who  but  the 
sons  of  Usnoth,  Althos  and  dark-haired  Ardan  ?" 

"  Come,"  said  Nathos,  "  come,  chief  of  high  Temo- 
ra !  Let  our  battle  be  on  the  coast,  for  the  white- 
bosomed  maid.  His  people  are  not  with  Nathos  :  they 
are  behind  these  rolling  seas.  Why  dost  thou  bring 
thy  thousands  against  the  chief  of  Etha  ?  Thou  didst 
fly  from  him  in  battle,  when  his  friends  were  around 
his  spear."  "  Youth  of  the  heart  of  pride,  shall  Erin's 
king  fight  with  thee  ?  Thy  fathers  were  not  among 
the  renowned,  nor  of  the  kings  of  men.  Are  the  arms 
of  foes  in  their  halls  ?  or  the  shields  of  other  times  ? 
Cairbar  is  renowned  in  Temora,  nor  does  he  fight  with 
feeble  men !" 

The  tear  started  from  car-borne  Nathos.  He  turned 
his  eyes  to  his  brothers.  Their  spears  flew  at  once. 
Three  heroes  lay  on  earth.  Then  the  light  of  their 
swords  gleamed  on  high.  The  ranks  of  Erin  yield,  as 
a  ridge  of  dark  clouds  before  a  blast  of  wind !  Then 


DAR-THTJLA.  381 

Cairbar  ordered  his  people,  and  they  drew  a  thousand 
bows.  A  thousand  arrows  flew.  The  sons  of  Usnoth 
fell  in  blood.  They  fell  like  three  young  oaks,  which 
stood  alone  on  the  hill :  the  traveller  saw  the  lovely- 
trees,  and  wondered  how  they  grew  so  lonely :  the 
blast  of  the  desert  came  by  night,  and  laid  their  green 
heads  low.  Next  day  he  returned,  but  they  were  with, 
ered,  and  the  heath  was  bare  ! 

Dar-thula  stood  in  silent  grief,  and  beheld  their  fall ! 
No  tear  is  in  her  eye.  But  her  look  is  wildly  sad. 
Pale  was  her  cheek.  Her  trembling  lips  broke  short 
an  half-formed  word.  Her  dark  hair  flew  on  wind. 
The  gloomy  Cairbar  came.  "  Where  is  thy  lover 
now  ?  the  car-borne  chief  of  Etha  ?  Hast  thou  be- 
held the  halls  of  Usnoth  ?  or  the  dark-brown  hills  of 
Fingal  ?  My  battle  would  have  roared  on  Morven,  had 
not  the  winds  met  Dar-thula.  Fingal  himself  would 
have  been  low,  and  sorrow  dwelling  in  Selma  !"  Her 
shield  fell  from  Dar-thula's  arm.  Her  breast  of  snow 
appeared.  It  appeared ;  but  it  was  stained  with 
blood.  An  arrow  was  fixed  in  her  side.  She  fell 
on  the  fallen  Nathos,  like  a  wreath  of  snow  !  Her 
hair  spreads  wide  on  his  face.  Their  blood  is  mixing 
round  ! 

"  Daughter  of  Colla !  thou  art '  ow  !"  said  Cairbar's 
hundred  bards.  "  Silence  is  at  the  blue  streams  of 
Selama.  Truthil's  race  have  failed.  When  wilt  thou 
rise  in  thy  beauty,  first  of  Erin's  maids  ?  Thy  sleep 
is  long  in  the  tomb.  The  morning  distant  far.  The 
sun  shall  not  come  to  thy  bed  and  say,  Awake,  Dar- 
thula  !  awake,  thou  first  of  women  !  the  wind  of  spring 
is  abroad.  The  flowers  shake  their  heads  on  the  green 
hills.  The  woods  wave  their  growing  leaves.  Retire, 
O  sun !  the  daughter  of  Colla  is  asleep.  She  will  not 
come  forth  in  her  beauty.  She  will  not  move  in  the 
steps  of  her  loveliness." 


882  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

Such  was  the  song  of  the  bards,  when  they  raised 
the  tomb.  I  sung  over  the  grave,  when  the  king  of 
Morven  came  :  when  he  came  to  green  Erin  to  fight 
with  car-borne  Cairbar  ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  CUTHULLIN. 

ARGUMENT. 

Cutfaullin,  after  the  arms  of  Fingal  had  expelled  Swaran  from  Ire- 
land, continued  to  manage  the  affairs  of  that  kingdom  as  the 
guardian  of  Cormac  the  young  king.  In  the  thiroT  year  of  Cu- 
mullin's  administration,  Torlath,  the  son  of  Cantela,  rebelled  in 
Connaught :  and  advanced  to  Temora  to  dethrone  Cormac.  Cu- 
thullin  marched  against  him,  came  up  with  him  at  the  lake  of 
Lego,  and  totally  defeated  his  forces.  Torlath  fell  in  battle  by 
Cutnullin's  hand  ;  but  as  he  too  eagerly  pressed  on  the  enemy, 
he  was  mortally  wounded.  The  affairs  of  Cormac,  though  for 
some  time  supported  by  Nathos,  as  mentioned  in  the  preceding  ' 
poem,  fell  into  confusion  at  the  death  of  Cuthullin.  Cormac 
himself  was  slain  by  the  rebel  Cairbar ;  and  the  re-establishment 
of  the  royal  family  of  Ireland,  by  Fingal,  furnishes  the  subject  of 
the  epic  poem  of  Temora. 

Is  the  wind  on  the  shield  of  Fingal  ?  Or  is  the 
voice  of  past  times  in  my  hall  ?  Sing  on,  sweet  voice  ! 
for  thou  art  pleasant.  Thou  carriest  away  my  night 
with  joy.  Sing  on,  O  Bragela,  daughter  of  car-borne 
Sorglan  ! 

"  It  is  the  white  wave  of  the  rock,  and  not  Cuthul- 
lin's  sails.  Often  do  the  mists  deceive  me  for  the  ship 
of  my  love  !  when  they  rise  round  some  ghost,  and 
spread  their  gray  skirts  on  the  wind.  Why  dost  thou 
delay  thy  coming,  son  of  the  generous  Semo  ?  Four 
times  has  autumn  returned  with  its  winds,  and  raised 
the  seas  of  Togorma,*  since  thou  hast  been  in  the  roar 
of  battles,  and  Bragela  distant  far !  Hills  of  the  isle 
of  mist !  when  will  ye  answer  to  his  hounds  ?  But  ye 
are  dark  in  your  clouds.  Sad  Bragela  calls  in  vain ! 
Night  comes  rolling  down.  The  face  of  ocean  falls. 
The  heath-cock's  head  is  beneath  his  wing.  The  hind 

*  Togorma,  i.  e.  "  the  island  of  blue  waves,"  one  of  the  IIe« 
brides. 


384  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

sleeps  with  the  hart  of  the  desert.  They  shall  rise 
with  morning's  light,  and  feed  by  the  mossy  stream. 
But  my  tears  return  with  the  sun.  My  sighs  come  on 
with  the  night.  When  wilt  thou  come  in  thine  arms, 
O  chief  of  Erin's  wars  ?" 

Pleasant  is  thy  voice  in  Osstan's  ear,  daughter  of 
ca  r- borne  Sorglan  !  But  retire  to  the  hall  of  shells  ; 
to  the  beam  of  the  burning  oak.  Attend  to  the  mur- 
mur of  the  sea  :  it  rolls  at  Dunscai's  walls :  let  sleep 
descend  on  thy  blue  eyes.  Let  the  hero  arise  in  thy 
dreams ! 

Cuthullin  sits  at  Lego' 3  lake,  at  the  dark  rolling  of 
waters.  Night  is  arout  J  the  hero.  His  thousands 
spread  on  the  1  eath.  A  hundred  oaks  burn  in  the 
midst.  The  feast  of  che  s  is  smoking  wide.  Carril 
strikes  the  harp  beneath  a  tree.  His  gray  locks  glitter 
in  the  beam.  The  rustling  blast  of  night  is  near,  and 
lifts  his  aged  hair.  His  song  i<<  of  the  blue  Togorma, 
and  of  its  chief,  Cuthullin's  friend  !  "  Why  art  thou 
absent,  Connal,  in  the  days  of  the  gloomy  storm  ?  The 
chiefs  of  the  south  have  convened  against  the  car-borne 
Cormac.  The  winds  detain  thy  sails.  Thy  blue 
waters  roll  around  thee.  Bu*  Cormac  is  not  alone. 
The  son  of  Semo  fights  his  wars  !  Semo's  son  his 
battles  fights !  the  terror  of  the  stranger  !  He  that  is 
like  the  vapor  of  death,  slowly  borne  by  sultry  winds. 
The  sun  reddens  in  its  presence ;  the  people  fall 
around." 

Such  was  the  song  of  Carril,  when  a  son  of  the  foe 
appeared.  He  threw  down  his  pointless  spear.  He 
spoke  the  words  of  Torlath  ;  Torlath,  chief  of  heroes, 
from  Lego's  sable  surge  !  He  that  led  his  thousands 
to  battle,  against  car- borne  Cormac.  Cormac,  who 
was  distant  far,  in  Temora's  echoing  halls  :  he  learned 
to  bend  the  bow  of  his  fathers  ;  and  to  lift  the  spear. 
Nor  long  didst  thou  lift  the  spear,  mildly-shining 


Af 


THE   DEATH   OF   CUTHTJLLOT.  385 

beam  of  youth !  death  stands  dim  behind  thee,  like 
the  darkened  half  of  the  moon  behind  its  growing 
light.  Cuthullin  rose  before  the  bard,  that  came 
from  generous  Torlath.  He  offered  him  the  shell  of 
joy.  He  honored  the  son  of  songs.  "  Sweet  voice 
of  Lego  !"  he  said,  "  what  are  the  words  of  Torlath  ? 
Comes  he  to  our  feast  or  battle,  the  car-borne  son  of 
Cantela  ?" 

"  He  comes  to  thy  battle,"  replied  the  bard,  "  to  the 
sounding  strife  of  spears.  When  morning  is  gray  on 
Lego,  Torlath  will  fight  on  the  plain.  Wilt  thou  meet 
him,  in  thine  arms,  king  of  the  isle  of  mist  ?  Terri- 
ble is  the  spear  of  Torlath  !  it  is  a  meteor  of  night. 
He  lifts  it,  and  the  people  fall !  death  sits  in  the  light- 
ning of  his  sword  !" — "  Do  I  fear,"  replied  Cuthullin, 
"  the  spear  of  car-borne  Torlath  ?  He  is  brave  as  a 
thousand  heroes  :  but  my  soul  delights  in  war  !  The 
sword  rests  not  by  the  side  of  Cuthullin,  bard  of  the 
times  of  old  !  Morning  shall  meet  me  on  the  plain, 
and  gleam  on  the  blue  arms  of  Semo's  son.  But  sit 
thou  on  the  heath,  O  bard,  and  let  us  hear  thy  voice. 
Partake  of  the  joyful  shell :  and  hear  the  songs  of 
Temora !" 

"  This  is  no  time,"  replied  the  bard,  "  to  hear  the 
song  of  joy  :  when  the  mighty  are  to  meet  in  battle, 
like  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  Lego.  Why  art  thou 
so  dark,  Slimora !  with  all  thy  silent  woods  ?  No  star 
trembles  on  thy  top.  No  moonbeam  on  thy  side.  But 
the  meteors  of  death  are  there  :  the  gray  watery  forms 
of  ghosts.  Why  art  thou  dark,  Slirnora !  why  thy 
silent  woods  ?"  He  retired,  in  the  sound  of  his  song. 
Carril  joined  his  voice.  The  music  was  like  the  mem- 
ory of  joys  that  are  past,  pleasant  and  mournful  to  the 
doul.  The  ghosts  of  departed  bards  heard  on  Slimora'a 
side.  Soft  sounds  spread  along  the  wood.  The  silent 
valleys  of  night  rejoice.  So  when  he  sits  in  the  silence 
nt\ 


380  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAX. 

of  the  day,  in  the  valley  of  his  breeze,  the  humming 
of  the  mountain  bee  comes  to  Ossian's  ear :  the  gale 
drowns  it  in  its  course  :  but  the  pleasant  sound  returns 
again  !  Slant  looks  the  sun  on  the  field !  gradual  grows 
the  shade  of  the  hill ! 

"  Raise,"  said  Cuthullin  to  his  hundred  bards,  "  tho 
song  of  the  noble  Fingal :  that  song  which  he  hears 
at  night,  when  the  dreams  of  his  rest  descend  ;  when 
the  bards  strike  the  distant  harp,  and  the  faint  light 
gleams  on  Selma's  walls.  Or  let  the  grief  of  Lara 
rise  :  the  sighs  of  the  mother  of  Calmar,  when  he  was 
sought,  in  vain,  on  his  hills ;  when  she  beheld  his  bow 
in  the  hall.  Carril,  place  the  shield  of  Caithbat  on 
that  branch.  Let  the  spear  of  Cuthullin  be  near  ;  that 
the  sound  of  my  battle  may  rise,  with  the  gray  beam 
of  the  east." 

The  hero  leaned  on  his  father's  shield  :  the  song  of 
Lara  rose  !  The  hundred  bards  were  distant  far :  Car- 
ril alone  is  near  the  chief.  The  words  of  the  song 
were  his :  the  sound  of  his  harp  was  mournful. 

"  Alcletha  with  the  aged  locks  !  mother  of  car-borne 
Calmar  !  why  dost  thou  look  towards  the  desert,  to  be- 
hold the  return  of  thy  son  ?  These  are  not  his  heroes, 
dark  on  the  heath :  nor  is  that  the  voice  of  Calmar. 
It  is  but  the  distant  grove,  Alcletha  !  but  the  roar  of 
the  mountain- wind ! — *'  Who  bounds  over  Lara's  stream, 
sister  of  the  noble  Calmar  ?  Does  not  Alcletha  behold 
his  spear  ?  But  her  eyes  are  dim  !  Is  it  not  the  sen 
of  Matha,  daughter  of  my  love  ?' 

"  '  It  is  but  an  aged  oak,  Alcletha  !'  replied  the 
lovely  weeping  Alona.  '  It  is  but  an  oak,  Alcle- 
tha, bent  over  Lara's  stream.  But  who  comes  along 
the  plain  ?  sorrow  is  in  his  speed.  He  lifts  high  the 
spear  of  Calmar.  Alcletha,  it  is  covered  with  blood  !' — 

*  Alcletha  speaks. 


THE  DEATH  OF  CUTHtTLLIN.  387 

" '  *  But  it  is  covered  with  the  blood  of  foes,  sister  of 
car-borne  Calmar  !  His  spear  never  returned  unstained 
with  blood  :  nor  his  bow  from  the  strife  of  the  mighty. 
The  battle  is  consumed  in  his  presence  :  he  is  a  flame 
of  death,  Alona  ! — Youth  of  the  mournful  speed !  where 
is  the  son  of  Alcletha !  Does  he  return  with  his  fame, 
in  the  midst  of  his  echoing  shields  ?  Thou  art  dark 
and  silent !  Calmar  is  then  no  more  !  Tell  me  not, 
warrior,  how  he  fell.  I  must  not  hear  of  his  wound !' 
Why  dost  thou  look  towards  the  desert,  mother  of  low- 
laid  Calmar  ?" 

Such  was  the  song  of  Carril,  when  Cuthullin  lay  on 
his  shield.  The  bards  rested  on  their  harps.  Sleep 
fell  softly  around.  The  son  of  Semo  was  awake  alone. 
His  soul  fixed  on  war.  The  burning  oaks  began  to 
decay.  Faint  red  light  is  spread  around.  A  feeble 
voice  is  heard !  The  ghost  of  Calmar  came !  He 
stalked  dimly  along  the  beam.  Dark  is  the  wound  in 
his  side.  His  hair  is  disordered  and  loose.  Joy  sits  pale 
on  his  face.  He  seems  .to  invite  Cuthullin  to  his  cave. 

"  Son  of  the  cloudy  night !"  said  the  rising  chief  of 
Erin ;  "  why  dost  thou  bend  thy  dark  eyes  on  me, 
ghost  of  the  noble  Calmar  ?  Wouldst  thou  frighten  me, 
O  Matha's  son  !  from  .the  battles  of  Cormac  ?  Thy 
hand  was  not  feeble  in  war :  neither  was  thy  voice  for 
peace.  How  art  thou  changed,  chief  of  Lara  !  if  thou 
now  dost  advise  to  fly !  But,  Calmar,  I  never  fled.  I 
never  feared  the  ghosts  of  night.  Small  is  their  know- 
ledge, weak  their  hands  ;  their  dwelling  is  in  the  wind. 
But  my  soul  grows  in  danger,  and  rejoices  in  the  noise 
of  steel.  Retire  thou  to  thy  cave.  Thou  art  not  Gal- 
mar's  ghost.  He  delighted  in  battle.  His  arm  was 
like  the  thunder  of  heaven  !  He  retired  in  his  blast 
with  joy,  for  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  his  praise." 

*  Alcletha  speaks. 


388  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAX. 

The  faint  beam  of  the  morning  rose.  The  sound 
of  Caithbat's  buckler  spread.  Green  Erin's  warriors 
convened,  like  the  roar  of  many  streams.  The  horn 
of  war  is  heard  over  Lego.  The  mighty  Torlath 
came  !  "  Why  dost  thou  come  with  thy  thousands,  Cu- 
thullin,"  said  the  chief  of  Lego.  "  I  know  the  strength 
of  thy  arm.  Thy  soul  is  an  unextinguished  fire.  Why 
fight  we  not  on  the  plain,  and  let  our  hosts  behold  our 
deeds  ?  Let  them  behold  us  like  roaring  waves,  that 
tumble  round  a  rock  ;  the  mariners  hasten  away,  and 
look  on  their  strife  with  fear." 

"  Thou  risest  like  the  sun,  on  my  soul,  replied  the 
son  of  Semo.  Thine  arm  is  mighty,  O  Torlath  !  and 
worthy  of  my  wrath.  Retire,  ye  men  of  Ullin,  to  Sli- 
mora's  shady  side.  Behold  the  chief  of  Erin,  in  the 
day  of  his  fame.  Carril,  tell  to  mighty  Connal,  if  Cu- 
thullin  must  fall,  tell  him  I  accused  the  winds,  which 
roar  on  Togorma's  waves.  Never  was  he  absent  in 
battle,  when  the  strife  of  my  fame  arose.  Let  his 
sword  be  before  Cormac,  like  the  beam  of  heaven. 
Let  his  counsel  sound  in  Temora,  in  the  day  of 
danger !" 

He  rushed,  in  the  sound  of  his  arms,  like  the  terrible 
spirit  of  Loda,  when  he  comes,  in  the  roar  of  a  thou- 
sand storms,  and  scatters  battles  from  his  eyes.  He 
sits  on  a  cloud  over  Lochlin's  seas.  His  mighty  hand 
is  on  his  sword.  Winds  lift  his  flaming  locks  !  The 
waning  moon  half  lights  his  dreadful  face.  His  fea- 
tures blended  in  darkness  arise  to  view.  So  terrible 
was  Cuthullin  in  the  day  of  his  fame.  Torlath  fell  by 
his  hand.  Lego's  heroes  mourned.  They  gather 
around  the  chief,  like  the  clouds  of  the  desert.  A 
thousand  swords  rose  at  once ;  a  thousand  arrows  flew ; 
but  he  stood  like  a  rock  in  the  midst  of  a  roaring  sea. 
They  fell  around.  He  strode  in  blood.  Dark  Slimora 
echoed  wide.  The  sons  of  Ullin  came.  The  battle 


THE  DEATH  OF  CUTHULLIN.  389 

spread  over  Lego.  The  chief  of  Erin  overcame.  He 
returned  over  the  field  with  his 'fame.  But  pale  he 
returned !  The  joy  of  his  face  was  Hark.  He  rolled 
his  eyes  in  silence.  The  sword  hung;,  unsheathed,  in 
his  hand.  His  spear  bent  at  every  step  ! 

"  Carril,"  said  the  chief  in  secret,  "  the  strength  of 
Cuthullin  fails.  My  days  are  with  the  years  that  are 
past.  No  morning  of  mine  shall  arise.  They  shall 
seek  me  at  Temora.  but  I  shall  not  be  found.  Cormac 
will  weep  in  his  hall,  and  say,  Where  is  Erin's  chief? 
But  my  name  is  renowned  !  my  fame  in  the  song  of 
bards.  The  youth  will  say,  in  secret,  O  let  me  die  as 
Cuthullin  died  !  Renown  clothed  him  like  a  robe.  The 
light  of  his  fame  is  great. — Draw  the,  arrow  from  my 
side.  Lay  Cuthullin  beneath  that  oak.  Place  the 
shield  of  Caithbat  near,  that  they  may  behold  me  amidst 
the  arms  of  my  fathers  !" 

"  And  is  the  son  of  Semo  fallen  ?"  said  Carril  with 
a  sigh.  "  Mournful  are  Tura's  walls.  Sorrow  dwells 
at  Dunscai.  Thy  spouse  is  left  alone'  in  her  youth. 
The  son  of  thy  love  is  alone  !  He  shall  come  to  Bra- 
gela  and  ask  her  why  she  weeps !  He  shall  lift  his 
eyes  to  the  wall,  and  see  his  father's  sword.  Whose 
sword  is  that  ?  he  will  say.  The  soul  of  his  mother  is 
sad.  Who  is  that,  like  the  hart  of  the  desert,  in  the 
murmur  of  his  course  ?  His  eyes  look  wildly  round  in 
search  of  his  friend.  Connal,  son  of  Colgar,  where 
nast  thou  been,  when  the  mighty  fell  ?  Did  the  seas  of 
Togorma  roll  around  thee  ?  Was  the  wind  of  the  south 
in  thy  sails  ?  The  mighty  have  fallen  in  battle,  and 
thou  wast  not  there.  Let  none  tell  it  in  Selma,  nor  in 
Morven's  woody  land.  Fingal  will  be  sad,  and  the 
sons  of  the  desert  mourn  !" 

By  the  dark-rolling  waves  of  Lego  they  raised  the 
Sero's  tomb.  Luath,  at  a  distance,  lies.  The  song 
of  bards  rose  over  the  dead. 

33* 


390  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

"  *  Blest  be  thy  soul,  son  of  Semo !  Thou  wert 
mighty  in  battle.  Thy  strength  was  like  the  strength 
of  a  stream ;  thy  speed  like  the  eagle's  wing.  Thy 
path  in  battle  was  terrible  :  the  steps  of  death  were  be- 
hind thy  sword.  Blest  be  thy  soul,  sou  of  Semo,  car- 
borne  chief  of  Dunscai !  Thou  hast  not  fallen  by  the 
sword  of  the  mighty,  neither  was  thy  blood  on  the  spear 
of  the  brave.  The  arrow  came,  like  the  sting  of  death 
in  a  blast :  nor  did  the  feeble  hand,  which  drew  the 
bow,  perceive  it.  Peace  to  thy  soul,  in  thy  cave,  chief 
of  the  isle  of  mist ! 

"  The  mighty  are  dispersed  at  Temora ;  there  is 
none  in  Cormac's  hall.  The  king  mourns  in  his  youth. 
He  does  not  behold  thy  return.  The  sound  of  thy 
shield  is  ceased  :  his  foes  are  gathering  round.  Soft 
be  thy  rest  in  thy  cave,  chief  of  Erin's  wars  !  Bragela 
will  not  hope  for  thy  return,  or  see  thy  sails  in  ocean's 
foam.  Her  steps  are  not  on  the  shore :  nor  her  ear 
open  to  the  voice  of  thy  rowers.  She  sits  in  the  hall 
of  shells.  She  sees  the  arms  of  him  that  is  no  more. 
Thine  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  daughter  of  car-borne 
Sorglan  !  Blest  be  thy  soul  in  death,  O  chief  of  shady 
Tura !" 

*  This  is  the  Bong  of  the  bards  over  Cuthullk'e  tomb. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LORA. 


ARGUMENT. 

b'ingal,  or/  his  return  from  Ireland,  after  he  had  expelved  Swaran 
from  that  kingdom,  made  a  feast  to  all  his  heroes:  he  forgot  to 
invite  Ma-ronnan  and  Aldo,  two  chiefs,  who  had  not  been  along 
1  with  him  in  his  expedition.  They  resented  his  reglect;  and 
went  over  to  Erragon,  king  of  Sora,  a  country  of  Scandinavia, 
the  declared  enemy  of  Fingal.  The  valor  of  Aldo  soon  gained 
him  a  great  reputation  in  Sora ;  and  Lorma.  the  beautiful  wife 
of  Erragon,  fell  in  love  with  him.  He  found  means  to  escape 
with  her,  and  to  come  to  Fingal,  who  resided  then  in  Selma,  on 
the  western  coast.  Erragon  invaded  Scotland,  and  was  slain  in 
battle  by  Gaul,  the  son  of  Morni,  after  he  had  rejected  terms  of 
peace  offered  him  by  Fingal.  In  this  war  Aldo  fell,  in  a  single 
combat,  by  the  hands  of  his  rival  Erragon,  and  the  unfortunate 
Lorma  afterward  died  of  grief. 

SON  of  the  distant  land,  who  dwellest  in  the  secret 
cell ;  do  I  hear  the  sound  of  thy  grove  ?  or  is  it  thy 
voice  of  songs  ?  The  torrent  was  loud  in  my  ear  ;  but 
I  heard  a  tuneful  voice.  Dost  thou  praise  the  chiefs 
of  thy  land :  or  the  spirits  of  the  wind  ?  But,  lonely 
dweller  of  rocks  !  look  thou  on  that  heathy  plain.  Thou 
seest  green  tombs,  with  their  rank,  whistling  grass  •. 
with  their  stones  of  mossy  heads.  Thou  seest  them, 
son  of  the  rock,  but  Ossian's  eyes  have  failed ! 

A  mountain-stream  comes  roaring  down,  and  sends 
its  waters  round  a  green  hill.  Four  mossy  stones,  in 
the  midst  of  withered  grass,  rear  their  heads  on  the 
top.  Two  trees  which  the  storms  have  bent,  spread 
their  whistling  branches  around.  This  is  thy  dwelling, 
Erragon ;  this  thy  narrow  house ;  the  sound  of  thy 
shells  has  been  long  forgot  in  Sora.  Thy  shield  is  be- 
come  dark  in  thy  hall.  Erragon,  king  of  ships,  chief 
of  distant  Sora !  how  hast  thou  fallen  on  our  mount- 


302  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAW. 

ains  ?  How  is  the  mighty  low  ?  Son  of  the  secret  cell ! 
dost  thou  delight  in  songs  ?  Hear  the  battle  of  Lora. 
The  sound  of  its  steel  is  long  since  past.  So  thunder 
on  the  darkened  hill  roars  and  is  no  more.  The  sun 
returns  with  his  silent  beams.  The  glittering  rocks, 
and  the  green  heads  of  the  mountains,  smile. 

The  bay  of  Cona  received  our  ships  from  Erin's 
rolling  waves.  Our  white  sheets  hung  loose  to  the 
masts.  The  boisterous  winds  roared  behind  the  groves 
of  Morven.  The  horn  of  the  king  is  sounded;  the 
deer  start  from  their  rocks.  Our  arrows  flew  in  the 
woods.  The  feast  of  the  hill  is  spread.  Our  joy  was 
great  on  our  rocks,  for  the  fall  of  the  terrible  Swaran. 
Two  heroes  were  forgot  at  our  feast.  The  rage  of 
their  bosoms  burned.  They  rolled  their  red  eyes  in 
secret.  The  sigh  bursts  from  their  breasts.  They 
were  seen  to  talk  together,  and  to  throw  their  spears 
on  earth.  They  were  two  dark  clouds  in  the  midst  of 
our  joy ;  like  pillars  of  mist  on  the  settled  sea  :  they 
glitter  to  the  sun,  but  the  mariners  fear  a  storm. 

"  Raise  my  white  sails,"  said  Ma-ronnan,  "  raise 
them  to  the  winds  of  the  west.  Let  us  rush,  O  Aldo! 
through  the  foam  of  the  northern  wave.  We  are  for- 
got  at  the  feast :  but  our  arms  have  been  red  in  blood. 
Let  us  leave  the  hills  of  Fingal,  and  serve  the  king  of 
Sora.  His  countenance  is  fierce.  War  darkens 
around  his  spear.  Let  us  be  renowned,  O  Aldo,  in 
the  battles  of  other  lands  !" 

They  took  their  swords,  their  shields  of  thongs.  They 
rushed  to  Lumar's  resounding  bay.  They  came  to 
Sora's  haughty  king,  the  chief  of  bounding  steeds. 
Erragon  had  returned  from  the  chase.  His  spear  was 
red  in  blood.  He  bent  his  dark  face  to  the  ground ; 
and  whistled  as  he  went.  He  took  the  strangers  to 
his  feast :  they  fought  and  conquered  in  his  wars. 

Aldo  returned  with  his  fame  towards  Sora's  loftv 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LORA.  893 

walls.  From  her  tower  looked  the  spouse  of  Erragon, 
the  humid,  rolling  eyes  of  Lorma.  Her  yellow  hair 
flies  on  the  wind  of  ocean.  Her  white  breast  heaves, 
like  snow  on  heath;  when  the  gentle  winds  arise,  and 
slowly  move  it  in  the  light.  She  saw  young  Aldo,  like 
the  beam  of  Sora's  setting  sun.  ifer  soft  heart  sighed. 
Tears  filled  her  eyes.  Her  white  arm  supported  her 
head.  Three  days  she  sat  within  the  hall,  and  covered 
her  grief  with  joy.  On  the  fourth  she  fled  with  the 
hero,  along  the  troubled  sea.  They  came  to  Cona's 
mossy  towers,  to  Fingal  king  of  spears. 

"  Aldo  of  the  heart  of  pride  !"  said  Fingal,  rising  in 
wrath ;  "  shall  I  defend  thee  from  the  rage  of  Sora's 
injured  king?  Who  will  now  receive  my  people  into 
their  halls  ?  Who  will  give  the  feast  of  strangers,  since 
Aldo  of  the  little  soul  has  dishonored  my  name  in  Sora  ? 
Go  to  thy  hills,  thou  feeble  hand !  Go :  hide  thee  in 
thy  caves.  Mournful  is  the  battle  we  must  fight  with 
Sora's  gloomy  king.  Spirit  of  the  noble  Trenmor ! 
when  will  Fingal  cease  to  fight  ?  I  was  born  in  the 
midst  of  battles,*  and  my  steps  must  move  in  blood  to 
the  tomb.  But  my  hand  did  not  injure  the  weak,  my 
steel  did  not  touch  the  feeble  in  arms.  I  behold  thy 
tempests,  O  Morven !  which  will  overturn  my  halls ! 
when  my  children  are  dead  in  battle,  and  none  remains 
to  dwell  in  Selma.  Then  will  the  feeble  come,  but 
they  will  not  know  my  tomb.  My  renown  is  only  in 
song.  My  deeds  shall  be  as  a  dream  to  future  times !" 

His  people  gathered  around  Erragon,  as  the  storms 
round  the  ghosts  of  night ;  when  he  calls  them  from 
the  top  of  Morven,  and  prepares  to  pour  them  on  the 
land  of  the  stranger.  He  came  to  the  shore  of  Cona. 


*  Comhal,  tne  father  of  Fingal,  was  slain  in  battle,  against  the 
tribe  of  Morni,  the  very  day  that  Fingal  was  born  ;  so  that  he  may, 
with  propriety,  be  said  to  have  been  "born  in  the  midst  of  battles.'1 


394  THE    POEMS    OF    OSSIAX. 

He  sent  his  bard  to  the  king  to  demand  the  combat  of 
thousands :  or  the  land  of  many  hills !  Fingal  sat  in 
his  hall  with  the  friends  of  his  youth  around  him.  The 
young  heroes  were  at  the  chase,  far  distant  in  the  des- 
ert. The  gray-haired  chiefs  talked  of  other  times ; 
of  the  actions  of  their  youth  ;  when  the  aged  Nartmor 
came,  the  chief  of  streamy  Lora. 

"  This  is  no  time,"  said  Nartmor,  "to  hear  the  songs 
of  other  years  :  Erragon  frowns  on  the  coast,  and  lifts 
ten  thousand  swords.  Gloomy  is  the  king  among  his 
chiefs !  he  is  like  the  darkened  moon  amidst  the  meteors 
of  night ;  when  they  sail  along  her  skirts,  and  give  the 
light  that  has  failed  o'er  her  orb."  "Come,"  said 
Fingal,  "  from  thy  hall,  come,  daughter  of  my  love : 
come  from  thy  hall,  Bosmina,  maid  of  streamy  Mor- 
ven !  Nartmor,  take  the  steeds  of  the  strangers.  At- 
tend the  daughter  of  Fingal !  Let  her  bid  the  king  of 
Sora  to  our  feast,  to  Selma's  shaded  wall.  Offer  him, 
O  Bosmina !  the  peace  of  heroes,  and  the  wealth  of 
generous  Aldo.  Our  youths  are  far  distant.  Age  is 
on  our  trembling  hands !" 

She  came  to  the  host  of  Erragon,  like  a  beam  of 
light  to  a  cloud.  In  her  right  hand  was  seen  a  spark- 
ling shell.  In  her  left  an  arrow  of  gold.  The  first, 
the  joyful  mark  of  peace  !  The  latter,  the  sign  of  war. 
Erragon  brightened  in  her  presence,  as  a  rock  before 
the  sudden  beams  of  the  sun ;  when  they  issue  from  a 
broken  cloud  divided  by  the  roaring  wind  ! 

"  Son  of  the  distant  Sora,"  began  the  mildly-blush- 
ing maid,  "  come  to  the  feast  of  Morven's  king,  to 
Selma's  shaded  walls.  Take  the  peace  of  heroes, 
O  warrior !  Let  the  dark  sword  rest  by  thy  side. 
Choosest  thou  the  wealth  of  kings  ?  Then  hear  the 
words  of  generous  Aldo.  He  gives  to  Erragon  a  hun- 
dred steeds,  the  children  of  the  rein  ;  a  hundred  maids 
from  distant  lands;  a  hundred  hawks  with  fluttering 


THE  BATTLE  OF  L0RA.  895 

wing,  that  fly  across  the  sky.  A  hundred  girdles* 
shall  also  be  thine,  to  bind  high-bosomed  maids.  The 
friends  of  the  births  of  heroes.  The  cure  of  the  sons 
of  toil.  Ten  shells,  studded  with  gems,  shall  shine  in 
Sora's  towers  :  the  bright  water  trembles  on  their  stars, 
and  seems  to  be  sparkling  wine.  They  gladdened  once 
the  kings  of  the  world,f  in  the  midst  of  their  echoing 
halls.  These,  O  hero  !  shall  be  thine  ;  or  thy  white- 
bosomed  spouse.  Lorma  shall  roll  her  bright  eyes  in 
thy  halls ;  though  Fingal  loves  the  generous  Aldo : 
Fingal,  who  never  injured  a  hero,  though  his  arm  ii 
strong !" 

"  Soft  voice  of  Cona  !"  replied  the  king,  "  tell  him, 
he  spreads  his  feast  in  vain.  Let  Fingal  pour  his 
spoils  around  me.  Let  him  bend  beneath  my  power. 
Let  him  give  me  the  swords  of  his  fathers  :  the  shields 
of  other  times  ;  that  my  children  may  behold  them  in 
my  halls,  and  say,  '  These  are  the  arms  of  Fingal !'  " 
"  Never  shall  they  behold  them  in  thy  halls,"  said  the 
rising  pride  of  the  maid.  "  They  are  in  the  hands  of 
heroes,  who  never  yield  in  war.  King  of  echoing 
Sora  !  the  storm  is  gathering  on  our  hills.  Dost  thou 
not  foresee  the  fall  of  thy  people,  son  of  the  distant 
land  ?" 

She  came  to  Selma's  silent  halls.  The  king  beheld 
her  downcast  eyes.  He  rose  from  his  place,  in  his 
strength.  He  shook  his  aged  locks.  He  took  the 
sounding  mail  of  Trenmor.  The  dark-brown  shield 
of  his  fathers.  Darkness  filled  Selma's  hall,  when  he 

*  Sanctified  girdles,  till  very  lately,  were  kept  in  many  families 
in  the  north  of  Scotland  ;  they  were  bound  about  women  in  labor, 
and  were  supposed  to  alleviate  their  pains,  and  to  accelerate  the 
birth.  They  were  impressed  with  several  mystical  figures,  and  the 
ceremony  of  binding  them  about  the  woman's  waist,  was  accom- 
panied with  words  and  gestures,  which  showed  the  custom  to  have 
come  originally  from  the  Druids. 

f  The.  Roman  emperors. 


396  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1ATC. 

stretched  his  hand  to  the  spear  :  the  ghosts  of  thou- 
sands were  near,  and  foresaw  the  death  of  the  people. 
Terrible  joy  rose  in  the  face  of  the  aged  heroes.  They 
rushed  to  meet  the  foe.  Their  thoughts  are  on  the 
deeds  of  other  years  :  and  on  the  fame  that  rises  from 
death  ! 

Now  at  Trathal's  ancient  tomb  the  dogs  of  the  chase 
appeared.  Fingal  knew  that  his  young  heroes  follow, 
ed.  He  stopped  in  the  midst  of  his  course.  Oscar 
appeared  the  first ;  then  Morni's  son,  and  Nemi's  race. 
Fercuth  showed  his  gloomy  form.  Dermid  spread  his 
dark  hair  on  wind.  Ossian  came  the  last.  I  hummed 
the  song  of  other  times.  My  spear  supported  my  steps 
over  the  little  streams.  My  thoughts  were  of  mighty 
men.  Fingal  struck  his  bossy  shield,  and  gave  the 
dismal  sign  of  war.  A  thousand  swords  at  once,  un- 
sheathed, gleam  on  the  waving  heath.  Three  gray- 
haired  sons  of  the  song  raise  the  tuneful,  mournful 
voice.  Deep  and  dark,  with  sounding  steps,  we  rush, 
a  gloomy  ridge,  along  ;  like  the  shower  of  the  storm 
when  it  pours  on  a  narrow  vale. 

The  king  of  Morven  sat  on  his  hill.  The  sunbeam 
of  battle  flew  on  the  wind.  The  friends  of  his  youth 
are  near,  with  all  their  waving  locks  of  age.  Joy  rose 
in  the  hero's  eyes  when  he  beheld  his  sons  in  war ; 
when  he  saw  us  amidst  the  lightning  of  swords,  mind- 
ful of  the  deeds  of  our  fathers.  Erragon  came  on,  iu 
his  strength,  like  the  roar  of  a  winter  stream.  The 
battle  falls  around  his  steps  :  death  dimly  stalks  along 
by  his  side. 

"  Who  comes,"  said  Fingal,  "  like  the  bounding 
roe  ;  like  the  hart  of  echoing  Cona  ?  His  shield  glit- 
ters on  his  side.  The  clang  of  his  armor  is  mournful. 
He  meets  with  Erragon  in  the  strife.  Behold  the 
battle  of  the  chiefs !  It  is  like  the  contending  of  ghosts 
in  a  gloomy  storm.  But  fallest  thou,  son  of  the  hill, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LORA.  397 

and  is  thy  white  bosom  stained  with  blood  ?  Weep, 
unhappy  Lorma  !  Aldo  is  no  more  !"  The  king  took 
the  spear  of  his  strength.  He  was  sad  for  the  fall  of 
Aldo.  He  bent  his  deathful  eyes  on  the  foe  :  but  Gaul 
met  the  king  of  Sora.  Who  can  relate  the  fight  of  tho 
chiefs  ?  The  mighty  stranger  fell !  "  Sons  of  Cona  !" 
Fingal  cried  aloud,  "  stop  the  hand  of  death.  Mighty 
was  he  that  is  low.  Much  is  he  mourned  in  Sora ! 
The  stranger  will  come  towards  his  hall,  and  wonder 
why  it  is  so  silent.  The  king  is  fallen,  O  stranger  ! 
The  joy  of  his  house  is  ceased.  Listen  to  the  sound 
of  his  woods  !  Perhaps  his  ghost  is  murmuring  there  ! 
But  he  is  far  distant,  on  Morven,  beneath  the  sword 
of  a  foreign  foe."  Such  were  the  words  of  Fingal, 
when  the  bard  raised  the  song  of  peace.  We  stopped 
our  uplifted  swords.  We  spared  the  feeble  foe.  We 
laid  Erragon  in  a  tomb.  1  raised  the  voice  of  grief. 
The  clouds  of  night  came  rolling  down.  The  ghost 
of  Erragon  appeared  to  some.  His  face  was  cloudy 
and  dark  ;  a  half-formed  sigh  in  his  breast.  "  Blest 
be  thy  soul,  O  king  of  Sora  !  thine  arm  was  terrible 
in  war !" 

Lorma  sat  in  Aldo's  hall.  She  sat  at  the  light  of  a 
flaming  oak.  The  night  came  down,  but  he  did  not 
return.  The  soul  of  Lorma  is  sad  !  "  What  detains 
thee,  hunter  of  Cona  ?  Thou  didst  promise  to  return. 
Has  the  deer  been  distant  far  ?  Do  the  dark  winds 
sigh,  round  thee,  on  the  heath  ?  I  am  in  the  land  of 
strangers  ;  who  is  my  friend,  but  Aldo  ?  Come  from 
thy  sounding  hills,  O  my  best  beloved  !" 

Her  eyes  are  turned  towards  the  gate.  She  listens 
to  the  rustling  blast.  She  thinks  it  is  Aldo's  tread. 
Joy  rises  in  her  face !  But  sorrow  returns  again,  like 
a  thin  cloud  on  the  moon.  "  Wilt  thou  not  return,  my 
love  ?  Let  me  beheld  the  face  of  the  hill.  The  moon 
is  in  the  east.  Calm  and  bright  is  the  breast  of  the 
34 


398  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAIC. 

lake  !  When  shall  I  behold  his  dogs,  returning  from 
the  chase  ?  When  shall  I  hear  his  voice,  loud  and  dis- 
tant on  the  wind  ?  Come  from  thy  sounding  hills, 
hunter  of  woody  Cona  !"  His  thin  ghost  appeared,  on 
a  rock,  like  a  watery  beam  of  feeble  light :  when  the 
moon  rushes  sudden  from  between  two  clouds,  and  the 
midnight  shower  is  on  the  field.  She  followed  the 
empty  form  over  the  heath.  She  knew  that  her  hero 
fell.  I  heard  her  approaching  cries  on  the  wind,  like 
the  mournful  voice  of  the  breeze,  when  it  sighs  on  the 
grass  of  the  cave  ! 

She  came.  She  found  her  hero !  Her  voice  was 
heard  no  more.  Silent  she  rolled  her  eyes.  She  was 
pale  and  wildly  sad  !  Few  were  her  days  on  Cona. 
She  sunk  into  the  tomb.  Fingal  commanded  his  bards ; 
they  sung  over  the  death  of  Lorma.  The  daughters 
of  Morven  mourned  her,  for  one  day  in  the  year,  when 
the  dark  winds  of  autumn  returned  ! 

Son  of  the  distant  land  !  Thou  dwellest  in  the  field 
of  fame  !  O  let  the  song  arise,  at  times,  in  praise  of 
those  who  fell !  Let  their  thin  ghosts  rejoice  around 
thee  ;  and  the  soul  of  Lorma  come  on  a  feeble  beam  ; 
•when  thou  liest  down  to  rest,  and  the  moon  looks  into 
thy  cave.  Then  shalt  thou  see  her  lovely  j  but  the 
wear  is  still  on  her  cheek ' 


TEMORA. 

AIT     EPIC     POEM. 

BOOK  I. 
ARGUMENT. 

Caiibar,  the  son  of  Borbar-duthul,  lord  of  Atha,  in  Ccnnanght,  the 
most  potent  chief  of  the  race  of  the  Fir-bolg,  having  murdered, 
at  Tempra,  the  royal  palace,  Corrnac,  the  son  of  Artho,  the  young 
king  of  Ireland,  usurped  the  throne.  Cormac  was  lineally  de- 
scended from  Conar,  the  son  of  Trenmor,  the  great-grandfather 
of  Fingal,  king  of  those  Caledonians  who  inhabited  the  western 
coast  of  Scotland.  Fingal  resented  the  behavior  of  Cairbar,  and 
resolved  to  pass  over  into  Ireland  with  an  army,  to  re-establish 
the  royal  family  on  the  Irish  throne.  Early  intelligence  of  his 
designs  coming  to  Cairbar,  he  assembled  some  of  nis  tribes  in 
Ulster,  and  at  the  same  time  ordered  his  brother  Cathmor  to  fol- 
low him  speedily  with  an  army  from  Temora.  Such  was  the 
situation  of  affairs  when  the  Caledonian  invaders  appeared  on 
the  coast  of  Ulster. 

The  poem  opens  in  the  morning.  Cairbar  is  represented  as  retired 
from  the  rest  of  the  army,  when  one  of  his  scouts  brought  him 
news  of  the  landing  of  Fingal.  He  assembles  a  council  of  his 
chiefs.  Foldath,  the  chief  of  Moma,  haughtily  despises  the 
enemy  ;  and  is  reprimanded  warmly  by  Malthos.  Cairbar,  aftf  r 
hearing  their  debate,  orders  a  feast  to  be  prepared,  to  which,  by 
his  bard  Olla,  he  invites  Oscar,  the  son  of  Ossian ;  resolving  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  that  hero,  and  so  have  some  pretext  for  kill- 
ing him.  Oscar  came  to  the  feast ;  the  quarrel  happened ;  the 
followers  of  both  fought,  and  Cairbar  and  Oscar  fell  by  mutual 
wounds.  The  noise  of  the  battle  reached  Fingal's  army.  The 
king  came  on  to  the  relief  of  Oscar,  and  the  Irish  fell  back  to  the 
army  of  Cathmor,  who  was  advanced  to  the  banks  of  the  river 
Lubar,  on  the  heath  of  Moi-lena.  Fingal,  after  mourning  over 
his  grandson,  ordered  Ullin,  the  chief  of  his  oards,  to  carry  his 
body  to  Morven,  to  be  there  interred.  Night  coming  on,  Althan, 
the  son  of  Conachar,  relates  to  the  king  the  particulars  of  the 
murder  of  Cormac.  Fillan,  the  son  of  Fingal,  is  sent  to  observe 
ihe  motions  of  Cathmor,  by  night,  which  concludes  the  action 
of  the  first  day.  The  scene  of  this  book  is  a  plain,  near  the  hill  of 
Mora,  which  rose  on  the  borders  of  the  heath  of  Moi-lena  in  Ulster 

THE  blue  waves  of  Erin  roll  in  light.  The  moun- 
tains are  covered  with  day.  Trees  shake  their  dusky 
heads  in  the  breeze.  Gray  torrents  pour  their  noisy 


400  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

streams.  Two  green  hills,  with  aged  oaks,  surround  a 
narrow  plain.  The  blue  course  of  a  stream  is  there. 
On  its  banks  stood  Cairbar  of  Atha.  His  spear  sup- 
ports the  king  :  the  red  eye  of  his  fear  is  sad.  Cormac 
rises  in  his  soul,  with  all  his  ghastly  wounds.  The  gray 
form  of  the  youth  appears  in  darkness.  Blood  pours 
from  his  airy  side.  Cairbar  thrice  threw  his  spear  on 
earth.  Thrice  he  stroked  his  beard.  His  steps  are 
short.  He  often  stops.  He  tosses  his  sinewy  arms. 
He  is  like  a  cloud  in  the  desert,  varying  its  form  to 
every  blast.  The  valleys  are  sad  around,  and  fear,  by 
turns,  the  shower !  The  king  at  length  resumed  his 
soul.  He  took  his  pointed  spear.  He  turned  his  eye 
to  Moi-lena.  The  scouts  of  blue  ocean  came.  They 
came  with  steps  of  fear,  and  often  looked  behind. 
Cairbar  knew  that  the  mighty  were  near.  He  called 
his  gloomy  chiefs. 

The  sounding  steps  of  his  warriors  came.  They 
drew  at  once  their  swords.  There  Moruth  stood  with 
darkened  face.  Hidalla's  long  hair  sighs  in  the  wind. 
Red-haired  Corrnar  bends  on  his  spear,  and  rolls  his 
sidelong-looking  eyes.  Wild  is  the  look  of  Malthos, 
from  beneath  two  shaggy  brows.  Foldath  stands,  like 
an  oozy  rock,  that  covers  its  dark  sides  with  foam. 
His  spear  is  like  Slimora's  fir,  that  meets  the  wind  of 
heaven.  His  shield  is  marked  with  the  strokes  of 
battle.  His  red  eye  despises  danger.  These,  and  a 
thousand  other  chiefs,  surrounded  the  king  of  Erin, 
when  the  scout  of  ocean  came,  Mor-annal,  from  streamy 
Moi-lena.  His  eyes  hang  forward  from  his  face.  His 
lips  are  trembling  pale  ! 

"  Do  the  chiefs  of  Erin  stand,"  he  said,  "  silent  as 
the  grove  of  evening  ?  Stand  they,  like  a  silent  wood, 
and  Fingal  on  the  coast  ?  Fingal,  who  is  terrible  in 
battle,  the  king  of  streamy  Morven  !"  "  Hast  thou 
seen  the  warrior  ?"  said  Cairbar  with  a  sigh.  '•'  Are 


TEMORA.  401 

his  heroes  many  on  the  coast  ?  Lifts  he  the  spear  of 
battle  ?  or  comes  the  king  in  peace  ?"  "  In  peace  he 
comes  not,  king  of  Erin  ;  I  have  seen  his  forward 
spear.*  It  is  a  meteor  of  death.  The  blood  of  thou- 
sands is  on  its  steel.  He  came  first  to  the  shore,  strong 
in  the  gray  hair  of  age.  Full  rose  his  sinewy  limbs, 
as  he  strode  in  his  might.  That  sword  is  by  his  side, 
which  gives  no  second  wound.  His  shield  is  terrible, 
like  the  bloody  moon,  ascending  through  a  storm.  Then 
came  Ossian,  king  of  songs.  Then  Morni's  son,  the 
first  of  men.  Connal  leaps  forward  on  his  spear. 
Dermid  spreads  his  dark-brown  locks.  Fillan  bends 
his  bow,  the  young  hunter  of  streamy  Moruth.  But 
who  is  that  before  them,  like  the  terrible  course  of  a 
stream  ?  It  is  the  son  of  Ossian,  bright  between  his 
locks !  His  long  hair  falls  on  his  back.  His  dark 
brows  are  half  enclosed  in  steel.  His  sword  hangs 
loose  on  his  side.  His  spear  glitters  as  he  moves.  I 
fled  from  his  terrible  eyes,  king  of  high  Temora !" 

"  Then  fly,  thou  feeble  man,"  said  Foldath's  gloomy 
wrath.  "  Fly  to  the  gray  streams  of  thy  land,  son  of 
the  little  soul !  Have  not  I  seen  that  Oscar  ?  I  beheld 
tfte  chief  in  war.  He  is  of  the  mighty  in  danger  :  but 
there  are  others  who  lift  the  spear.  Erin  has  many 
sons  as  brave,  king  of  Temora  of  groves.  Let  Foldath 
meet  him  in  his  strength.  Let  me  stop  this  mighty 
stream.  My  spear  is  covered  with  blood.  My  shield 
is  like  the  wall  of  Tura  !" 

"  Shall  Foldath  alone  meet  the  foe  ?"  replied  the 
dark-browed  Malthas  ?  "  Are  they  not  on  our  coast, 

*  Mor-annal  here  alludes  to  the  particular  appearance  of  Fingal'9 
Bpear.  If  a  man  upon  his  first  landing  in  a  strange  country,  kept 
the  point  of  his  spear  forward,  it  denoted,  in  those  days,  that  he 
came  in  a  hostile  manner,  and  accordingly  he  was  treated  as  an 
enemy  ;  if  he  kept  the  point  behind  him,  it  was  a  token  of  friend- 
ship, and  he  was  immediately  invited  to  the  feast,  according  to  the 
hospitality  of  the  times. 

34* 


40'2  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAX. 

like  the  waters  of  many  streams  ?  Are  not  these  the 
chiefs  who  vanquished  Swaran,  when  the  sons  of  green 
Erin  fled  ?  Shall  Foldath  meet  their  bravest  hero  ? 
Foldath  of  the  heart  of  pride  !  Take  the  strength  of 
the  people  !  and  let  Malthos  come.  My  sword  is  red 
with  slaughter,  hut  who  hag  heard  my  words  ?" 

"  Sons  of  green  Erin,"  said  Hidalla,  "  let  not  Fingal 
hear  your  words.  The  foe  might  rejoice,  and  his  arm 
be  strong  in  the  land.  Ye  are  brave,  O  warriors  !  Ye 
are  tempests  in  war.  Ye  are  like  storms,  which  meet 
the  rocks  without  fear,  and  overturn  the  woods  !  But 
let  us  move  in  our  strength,  slow  as  a  gathered  cloud  ! 
Then  shall  the  mighty  tremble  ;  the  spear  shall  fall 
from  the  hand  of  the  valiant.  We  see  the  cloud  of 
death,  they  will  say,  while  shadows  fly  over  their  face. 
Fingal  will  mourn  in  his  age.  He  shall  behold  his 
flying  fame.  The  steps  of  his  chiefs  will  cease  in 
Morven.  The  moss  of  years  shall  grow  in  Selma  !" 

Cairbar  heard  their  words  in  silence,  like  the  cloud 
of  a  shower :  it  stands  dark  on  Cromla,  till  the  light- 
ning bursts  its  side.  The  valley  gleams  with  heaven's 
flame  ;  the  spirits  of  the  storm  rejoice.  So  stood  the 
silent  king  of  Temora ;  at  length  his  words  broke 
forth.  "  Spread  the  feast  on  Moi-lena.  Let  my  hun- 
dred bards  attend.  Thou  red-haired  Olla,  take  the 
harp  of  the  king.  Go  to  Oscar,  chief  of  swords.  Bid 
Oscar  to  our  joy.  To-day  we  feast  and  hear  the  song ; 
to-morrow  break  the  spears !  Tell  him  that  I  have 
raised  the  tomb  of  Cathol ;  that  bards  gave  his  friend 
to  the  winds.  Tell  him  that  Cairbar  has  heard  of  his 
fame,  at  the  stream  of  resounding  Carun.  Cathmor, 
my  brother,  is  not  here.  He  is  not  here  with  his  thou- 
gnnds,  and  our  arms  are  weak.  Cathmor  is  a  foe  to 
strife  at  the  feast !  His  soul  is  bright  as  that  sun  !  But 
Cairbar  must  fight  with  Oscar,  chiefs  of  woody  Temora  ! 
His  words  for  Cathol  were  many  !  the  wrath  of  Cairbar 


TEMORA.  403 

burns  !   He  shall  fall  on  Moi-lena.    My  fame  shall  rise 
in  blood !" 

Their  faces  brightened  round  with  joy.  They  spread 
over  Moi-lena.  The  feast  of  shells  is  prepared.  The 
songs  of  bards  arise.  The  chiefs  of  Selma  heard  their 
joy.  We  thought  that  mighty  Cathmor  came.  Cath- 
mor,  the  friend  of  strangers  !  the  brother  of  red-haired 
Cairbar.  Their  souls  were  not  the  same.  The  light 
of  heaven  was  in  the  bosom  of  Cathmor.  His  towers 
rose  on  the  banks  of  Atha :  seven  paths  led  to  his  halls. 
Seven  chiefs  stood  on  the  paths,  and  called  the  stranger 
to  the  feast  I  But  Cathmor  dwelt  in  the  wood,  to  shun 
the  voice  of  praise  ! 

Olla  came  with  his  songs.  Oscar  went  to  Cairbar's 
feast.  Three  hundred  warriors  strode  along  Moi-lena 
of  the  streams.  The  gray  dogs  bounded  on  the  heath  : 
their  howling  reached  afar.  Fingal  saw  the  departing 
hero.  The  soul  of  the  king  was  sad.  He  dreaded 
Cairbar's  gloomy  thoughts,  amidst  the  feast  of  shells. 
My  son  raised  high  the  spear  of  Cormac.  A  hundred 
bards  met  him  with  songs.  Cairbar  concealed,  with 
smiles,  the  death  that  was  dark  in  his  soul.  The  feast 
is  spread.  The  shells  resound.  Joy  brightens  the 
face  of  the  host.  But  it  was  like  the  parting  beam  of 
the  sun,  when  he  is  to  hide  his  red  head  in  a  storm ! 

Cairbar  rises  in  his  arms.  Darkness  gathers  on  his 
brow.  The  hundred  harps  cease  at  once.  The  clang 
of  shields*  is  heard.  Far  distant  on  the  heath  Olla 
raised  a  song  of  wo.  My  son  knew  the  sign  of 
death  ;  and  rising  seized  his  spear.  "  Oscar,"  said  the 
dark-red  Cairbar,  "  I  behold  the  spear  of  Erin.  The 
spear  of  Temo/a  glitters  in  thy  hand,  son  of  woody 

*  When  a  chief  was  determined  to  kill  a  person  already  in  hia 
power,  it  was  usual  to  signify  that  his  death  was  intended,  by  the 
sound  of  a  shield  struck  with  the  blunt  end  of  a  spear:  at  the  same 
time  lha*  a  bard  at  a  distance  raised  the  death-song 


404  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

Morven  !  It  was  the  pride  of  a  hundred  kings.  The 
death  of  heroes  of  old.  Yield  it,  son  of  Ossian,  yield 
it  to  car-borne  Cairbar  !" 

"  Shall  I  yield,"  Oscar  replied,  "  the  gift  of  Erin's 
injured  king  ;  the  gift  of  fair-haired  Cormac,  when 
Oscar  scattered  his  foes  ?  I  came  to  Cormac's  halls 
of  joy,  when  Swaran  fled  from  Fingal.  Gladness  rose 
in  the  face  of  youth.  He  gave  the  spear  of  Temora. 
Nor  did  he  give  it  to  the  feeble  :  neither  to  the  weak 
in  soul.  The  darkness  of  thy  face  is  no  storm  to  me  : 
nor  are  thine  eyes  the  flame  of  death.  Do  I  fear  thy 
clanging  shield  ?  Tremble  I  at  Olla's  song  ?  No  : 
Cairbar,  frighten  the  feeble  ;  Oscar  is  a  rock  !" 

"  Wilt  thou  not  yield  the  spear  ?"  replied  the  rising 
pride  of  Cairbar.  "  Are  thy  words  so  mighty,  because 
Fingal  is  near  ?  Fingal  with  aged  locks,  from  Mor- 
ven's  hundred  groves  !  He  has  fought  with  little  men. 
But  he  must  vanish  before  Cairbar,  like  a  thin  pillar  of 
mist  before  the  winds  of  Atha !" — "  Were  he  who 
fought  with  little  men,  near  Atha's  haughty  chief,  Atha's 
chief  would  yield  green  Erin  to  avoid  his  rage  !  Speak 
not  of  the  mighty,  O  Cairbar  !  Turn  thy  sword  on 
me.  Our  strength  is  equal :  but  Fingal  is  renowned  ! 
the  first  of  mortal  men  !" 

Their  people  saw  the  darkening  chiefs.  Their  crowd- 
ing steps  are  heard.  Their  eyes  roll  in  fire.  A  thou- 
sand swords  are  half  unsheathed.  Red-haired  Olla 
raised  the  song  of  battle.  The  trembling  joy  of  Oscar's 
soul  arose  :  the  wonted  joy  of  his  soul  when  Fingal 's 
horn  was  heard.  Dark  as  the  swelling  wave  of  ocean 
before  the  rising  winds,  when  it  bends  its  head  near 
the  coast,  came  on  the  host  of  Cairbar  ! 

Daughter  of  Toscar !  why  that  tear  ?  He  ia  not 
fallen  yet.  Many  were  the  deaths  of  his  arm  oefore 
my  hero  fell ! 

Behold  they  fall  before  my  son,  like  groves  in  the 


TEMORA.  405 

desert ;  when  an  angry  ghost  rushes  through  night,  and 
takes  their  green  heads  in  his  hand  !  Morlath  falls. 
Maronnan  dies.  Conachar  trembles  in  his  blood ! 
Cairbar  shrinks  before  Oscar's  sword  !  He  creeps  in 
darkness  behind  a  stone.  He  lifts  the  spear  in  secret ; 
he  pierces  my  Oscar's  side  !  He  falls  forward  on  his 
shield,  his  knee  sustains  the  chief.  But  still  his  speai 
is  in  his  hand  !  See,  gloomy  Cairbar  falls  !  The  steel 
pierced  his  forehead,  and  divided  his  red  hair  behind. 
He  lay  like  a  shattered  rock,  which  Cromla  shakes 
from  its  shaggy  side,  when  the  green  valleyed  Erin 
shakes  its  mountains  from  sea  to  sea  ! 

But  never  more  shall  Oscar  rise  !  He  leans  on  his 
bossy  shield.  His  spear  is  in  his  terrible  hand.  Erin's 
sons  stand  distant  and  dark.  Their  shouts  arise,  like 
crowded  streams.  Moi-lena  echoes  wide.  Fingal 
heard  the  sound.  He  took  the  spear  of  Selma.  His 
steps  are  before  us  on  the  heath.  He  spoke  the  words 
of  wo.  "  I  hear  the  noise  of  war.  Yoing  Oscar  is 
alone.  Rise,  sons  of  Morven  :  join  the  hero's  sword  !" 

Ossian  rushed  along  the  heath.  Fillan  bounded  over 
Moi-lena.  Fingal  strode  in  his  strength.  The  light 
of  his  shield  is  terrible.  The  sons  of  Erin  saw  it  far 
distant.  They  trembled  in  their  souls.  They  knew 
that  the  wrath  of  the  king  arose  :  and  they  foresaw 
their  death.  We  first  arrived.  We  fought.  Erin's 
chiefs  withstood  our  rage.  But  when  the  king  came, 
in  the  sound  of  his  course,  what  heart  of  steel  could 
stand  ?  Erin  fled  over  Moi-lena.  Death  pursued  their 
flight.  We  saw  Oscar  on  his  shield.  We  saw  his 
blood  around.  Silence  darkened  on  every  face.  Each 
turned  his  back  and  wept.  The  king  strove  to  hide 
his  tears.  His  gray  beard  whistled  in  the  wind.  He 
bends  his  head  above  the  chief.  His  words  are  mixed 
with  sighs. 

"  Art  thou  fallen,  O  Oscar !  in  the  midst  of  thy 


406  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1A«. 

course  ?  the  heart  of  the  aged  beats  over  thee  !  Ho 
sees  thy  coming  wars  !  The  wars  which  ought  to 
come  he  sees  !  They  are  cut  off  from  thy  fame  !  When 
shall  joy  dwell  at  Selma  ?  When  shall  grief  depart  from 
Morven  ?  My  sons  fall  by  degrees  :  Fingal  is  the  last 
of  his  race.  My  fame  begins  to  pass  away.  Mine 
age  will  be  without  friends.  I  shall  sit  a  gray  cloud 
in  my  hall.  I  shall  not  hear  the  return  of  a  son,  in  his 
sounding  arms.  Weep,  ye  heroes  of  Morven  !  never 
more  shall  Oscar  rise  !" 

And  they  did  weep,  O  Fingal !  Dear  was  the  hero 
to  their  souls.  He  went  out  to  battle,  and  the  foes 
vanished.  He  returned  in  peace,  amidst  their  joy.  .  No 
father  mourned  his  son  slain  in  youth  :  no  brother  his 
brother  of  love.  They  fell  without  tears,  for  the  chief 
of  the  people  is  low  !  Bran  is  howling  at  his  feet : 
gloomy  Luath  is  sad  ;  for  he  had  often  led  them  to  the 
chase  ;  to  the  bounding  roe  of  the  desert ! 

When  Oscar  saw  his  friends  around,  his  heaving 
breast  arose.  "  The  groans,"  he  said,  " of  aged  chiefs ; 
the  howling  of  my  dogs  ;  the  sudden  bursts  of  the  song 
of  grief,  have  melted  Oscar's  soul.  My  soul,  that 
never  melted  before.  It  was  like  the  steel  of  my  sword. 
Ossian,  carry  me  to  my  hills  !  Raise  the  stones  of  my 
renown.  Place  the  horn  of  a  deer :  place  my  sword 
by  my  side.  The  torrent  hereafter  may  raise  the  earth : 
the  hunter  may  find  the  steel,  and  say,  '  This  has  been 
Oscar's  sword,  the  pride  of  other  years  !'  "  "  Fallest 
thou,  son  of  my  fame  ?  shall  I  never  see  thee,  Oscai  ? 
When  others  hear  of  their  sons,  shall  I  not  hear  of 
thee  ?  The  moss  is  on  thy  four  gray  stones.  The 
mournful  wind  is  there.  The  battle  shall  be  fought 
without  thee.  Thou  shalt  not  pursue  the  dark-brown 
hinds.  When  the  warrior  returns  from  battles,  and 
tolls  of  other  lands ;  '  1  have  seen  a  tomb,'  he  will 
say,  '  by  the  roaring  stream,  the  dark  dwelling  of  a 


TEMOKA.  407 

chief.  He  fell  by  car-borne  Oscar,  the  first  of  mortal 
men.'  I,  perhaps,  shall  hear  his  voice.  A  beam  of 
joy  will  rise  in  my  soul." 

Night  would  have  descended  in  sorrow,  and  morn- 
ing returned  in  the  shadow  of  grief.  Our  chiefs  would 
have  stood,  like  cold-dropping  rocks  on  Moi-lena,  and 
have  forgot  the  war  ;  did  not  the  king  disperse  his  grief, 
and  raise  his  mighty  voice.  The  chiefs,  as  new- wakened 
from  dreams,  lift  up  their  heads  around. 

"  How  long  on  Moi-lena  shall  we  weep  ?  How  long 
pour  in  Erin  our  tears  ?  The  mighty  will  not  return. 
Oscar  shall  not  rise  in  his  strength.  The  valiant  must 
fall  in  their  day,  and  be  no  more  known  on  their  hills. 
Where  are  our  fathers,  O  warriors  !  the  chiefs  of  the 
times  of  old  ?  They  have  set,  like  stars  that  have 
shone.  We  only  hear  the  sound  of  their  praise. 
But  they  were  renowned  in  their  years  :  the  terror  of 
other  times.  Thus  shall  we  pass  away,  in  the  day  of 
our  fall.  Then  let  us  be  renowned  when  we  may ;  and 
leave  our  fame  behind  us,  like  the  last  beams  of  the 
sun,  when  he  hides  his  red  head  in  the  west.  The 
traveller  mourns  his  absence,  thinking  of  the  flame  of 
his  beams.  Ullin,  my  aged  bard !  take  thou  the  ship 
of  the  king.  Carry  Oscar  to  Selma  of  harps.  Let 
the  daughters  of  Morven  weep.  We  must  fight  in 
Erin,  for  the  race  of  fallen  Cormac.  The  days  of  my 
years  begin  to  fail.  I  feel  the  weakness  of  my  arm. 
My  fathers  bend  from  their  clouds,  to  receive  their 
gray-haired  son.  But  before  I  go  hence,  one  beam  of 
feme  shall  rise.  My  days  shall  end,  as  my  years  be- 
gar,  in  fame.  My  life  shall  be  one  stream  of  light  to 
bards  of  other  times  !" 

Ullin  raised  his  white  sails.  The  wind  of  the  south 
came  forth.  He  bounded  on  the  waves  towards  Selma. 
I  remained  in  my  grief,  but  my  words  were  not  heard. 
The  feast  is  spread  on  Moi-lena.  A  hundred  heroes 


408  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAM. 

reared  the  tomb  of  Cairbar.  No  song  is  raised  over 
the  chief.  His  soul  has  been  dark  and  bloody.  The 
bards  remembered  the  fall  of  Cormac  !  what  could  they 
say  in  Cairbar's  praise  ? 

'  Night  came  rolling  down.  The  light  of  a  hundred 
oaks  arose.  Fingal  sat  beneath  a  tree.  Old  Althan 
stood  in  the  midst.  He  told  the  tale  of  fallen  Cormac. 
Althan  the  son  of  Conachar,  the  friend  of  car-borne 
Cuthullin.  He  dwelt  with  Cormac  in  windy  Temora, 
when  Semo's  son  fell  at  Lego's  stream.  The  tale  of 
Althan  was  mournful.  The  tear  was  in  his  eye  when 
he  spoke. 

"  The  setting  sun  was  yellow  on  Dora.  Gray  even 
ing  began  to  descend.  Temora's  woods  shook  with 
the  blast  of  the  inconstant  wind.  A  cloud  gathered  in 
the  west.  A  red  star  looked  from  behind  its  edge.  I 
stood  in  the  wood  alone.  I  saw  a  ghost  on  the  dark- 
ening air !  His  stride  extended  from  hill  to  hill.  His 
shield  was  dim  on  his  side.  It  was  the  son  of  Semo 
I  knew  the  warrior's  face.  But  he  passed  away  in  hia 
blast ;  and  all  was  dark  around !  My  soul  was  sad.  I 
went  to  the  hall  of  shells.  A  thousand  lights  arose. 
The  hundred  bards  had  strung  the  harp.  Cormac 
stood  in  the  midst,  like  the  morning  star,  when  it  re- 
joices on  the  eastern  hill,  and  its  young  beams  are 
bathed  in  showers.  Bright  and  silent  is  its  progress 
aloft,  but  the  cloud  that  shall  hide  it  is  near !  The 
sword  of  Artho  was  in  the  hand  of  the  Icing.  He 
looked  with  joy  on  its  polished  studs ;  thrice  he  at- 
tempted to  draw  it,  and  thrice  he  failed ;  his  yellow 
locks  are  spread  on  his  shoulders !  his  cheeks  of  youth 
are  red.  I  mourned  over  the  beam  of  youth,  for  he 
was  soon  to  set ! 

"  '  Althan !'  he  said  with  a  smile,  '  didst  thou  behold 
my  father  ?  Heavy  is  the  sword  of  the  king  ;  surely 
his  arm  was  strong.  O  that  I  were  like  liim  in  battle, 


TEMORA.  409 

when  the  rage  of  his  wrath  arose !  then  would  T  have 
met,  with  Cuthullin,  the  car-borne  son  of  Cantela  !  But 
years  may  come  on,  O  Althan  !  and  my  arm  be  strong. 
Hast  thou  heard  of  Semo's  son,  the  ruler  of  high  Te- 
mora  ?  He  might  have  returned  with  his  fame.  He 
promised  to  return  to-night.  My  bards  wait  him  with 
songs.  My  feast  is  spread  in  the  hall  of  kings.' 

"  I  heard  Cormac  in  silence.  My  tears  began  to 
flow.  I  hid  them  with  my  aged  locks.  The  king  per- 
ceived my  grief.  '  Son  of  Conachar  !'  he  said, '  is  the 
son  of  Semo  low  ?  Why  bursts  the  sigh  in  secret  ? 
Why  descends  the  tear  ?  Comes  the  car-borne  Tor- 
lath  ?  Comes  the  sounds  of  red-haired  Cairbar  ?  They 
come !  for  I  behold  "thy  grief.  Mossy  Tura's  chief  is 
low  !  Shall  I  not  rush  to  battle  ?  But  I  cannot  lift  the 
spear !  O  had  mine  arm  the  strength  of  Cuthullin, 
soon  would  Cairbar  fly  ;  the  fame  of  my  fathers  would 
be  renewed  ;  and  the  deeds  of  other  times  !' 

"  He  took  his  bow.  The  tears  flow  down  from  both 
his  sparkling  eyes.  Grief  saddens  round.  The  bards 
bend  forward,  from  their  hundred  harps.  The  lone 
blast  touched  their  trembling  strings.  The  sound*  is 
sad  and  low  !  a  voice  is  heard  at  a  distance,  as  of  one 
in  grief.  It  was  Carril  of  other  times,  who  came  from 
dark  Slirnoi-a.  He  told  of  the  fall  of  Cuthullin.  He 
told  of  his  mighty  deeds.  The  people  were  scattered 
round  his  tomb.  Their  arms  lay  on  the  ground. 
They  had  forgot  the  war,  for  he  their  sire,  was  seen 
no  more ! 

"  '  But  who,'  said  the  soft- voiced  Carril, '  who  come 
like  bounding  roes  ?  Their  statu~e  is  like  young  trees 
in  the  valley,  growing  in  a  shower !  Soft  and  ruddy 
aie  their  cheeks  !  Fearless  souls  look  forth  from  their 

*  That  prophetic  sound,  mentioned  in  other  poems,  which  the 
harps  of  the  bards  emitted  before  the  death  ol  a  person  worthy 
and.  renowned. 

35 


410  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

eyes  ?  Who  but  the  sons  of  Usnoth,  chief  of  streamy 
Etha  ?  The  people  rise  on  every  side,  like  the  strength 
of  an  half-extinguished  fire,  when  the  winds  come,  sud- 
den, from  the  desert,  on  their  rustling  wings.  Sudden 
glows  the  dark  brow  of  the  hill ;  the  passing  mariner 
lags,  on  his  winds.  The  sound  of  Caithbat's  shield 
was  heard.  The  warriors  saw  Cuthullin  in  Nathos. 
So  rolled  his  sparkling  eyes  !  his  steps  were  such  on 
the  heath.  Battles  are  fought  at  Lego.  The  sword 
of  Nathos  prevails.  Soon  shall  thou  behold  him  in  thy 
halls,  king  of  Temora  of  groves  !' 

"  '  Soon  may  I  behold  the  chief!'  replied  the  blue- 
eyed  king.  '  But  my  soul  is  sad  for  Cuthullin.  His 
voice  was  pleasant  in  mine  ear.  Often  have  we  moved, 
on  Dora,  to  the  chase  of  the  dark-brown  hinds.  His 
bow  was  unerring  on  the  hills.  He  spoke  of  mighty 
men.  He  told  of  the  deeds  of  my  fathers.  I  felt  my 
rising  joy.  But  sit  thou  at  thy  feast,  O  Carril !  I  have 
often  heard  thy  voice.  Sing  in  praise  of  Cuthullin. 
Sing  of  Nathos  of  Etha !' 

"  Day  rose  on  Temora,  with  all  the  beams  of  the  east. 
Crathin  came  to  the  hall,  the  son  of  old  Gellama.  '  I 
behold,'  he  said,  '  a  cloud  in  the  desert,  king  of  Erin ! 
a  cloud  it  seemed  at  first,  but  now  a  crowd  of  men ! 
One  strides  before  them  in  his  strength.  His  red  hair 
flies  in  the  wind.  His  shield  glitters  to  the  beam  of 
the  east.  His  spear  is  in  his  hand.' — 'Call  him  to 
the  feast  of  Temora,'  replied  the  brightening  king. 
'  My  hall  is  in  the  house  of  strangers,  son  of  generous 
Gellama!  It  is  perhaps  the  chief  of  Etha,  coming  in 
all  his  renown.  Hail,  mighty  stranger !  art  thou  of 
the  friends  of  Cormac  ?  But,  Carril,  he  is  dark  and  un- 
lovely. He  draws  his  sword.  Is  that  the  son  of  Us- 
noth, bard  of  the  times  of  old  ?' 

"  '  It  is  not  the  son  of  Usnoth  !'  said  Carril.  '  It  is 
Cairbar,  thy  foe.'  '  Why  comes-t  thou  in  thy  firms  to 


TEMORA.  411 

Temora?  chief  of  the  gloomy  hrow.  Let  not  thy 
sword  rise  against  Cormac !  Whither  dost  thou  turn 
thy  speed  ?'  He  passed  on  in  darkness.  He  seized  the 
hand  of  the  king.  Cormac  foresaw  his  death ;  the  rage 
of  his  eyes  arose.  '  Retire,  thou  chief  of  Atha!  Nathos 
comes  with  war.  Thou  art  bold  in  Cormac's  hall,  for 
his  arm  is  weak.'  The  sword  entered  the  side  of  the 
king.  He  fell  in  the  halls  of  his  father.  His  fair  hair 
is  in  the  dust.  His  blood  is  smoking  round. 

"  '  Art  thou  fallen  in  thy  halls?'  said  Carril,  '  O  son 
of  noble  Artho !  The  shield  of  Cuthullin  was  not  near. 
Nor  the  spear  of  thy  father.  Mournful  are  the  moun- 
tains of  Erin,  for  the  chief  of  the  people  is  low  !  Blest 
be  thy  soul,  O  Cormac !  Thou  art  darkened  in  thy 
youth !' " 

"  His  words  came  to  the  ears  of  Cairbar.  He  closed 
us  in  the  midst  of  darkness.  He  feared  to  stretch  his 
sword  to  the  bards,  though  his  soul  was  dark.  Long 
we  pined  alone  !  At  length  the  noble  Cathmor  came. 
He  heard  our  voice  from  the  cave.  He  turned  the  eye 
of  his  wrath  on  Cairbar. 

"  '  Brother  of  Cathmor,'  he  said,  'how  long  wilt  thou 
pain  my  soul  ?  Thy  heart  is  a  rock.  Thy  thoughts 
are  dark  and  bloody  !  But  thou  art  the  brother  of  Cath- 
mor ;  and  Cathmor  shall  shine  in  thy  war.  But  my 
soul  is  not  like  thine  ;  thou  feeble  hand  in  fight !  The 
light  of  my  bosom  is  stained  with  thy  deeds.  Bards 
will  not  sing  of  my  renown  ;  they  may  say,  "  Cathmor 
was  brave,  but  he  fought  for  gloomy  Cairbar."  They 
will  pass  over  my  tomb  in  siknce.  My  fame  shall  not 
be  heard.  Cairbar!  loose  the  bards.  They  are  the 
sons  of  future  times.  Their  voice  shall  be  heard  in 
other  years ;  after  the  kings  of  Temora  have  failed. 
We  came  forth  at  the  words  of  the  chief.  We  saw 
him  in  his  strength.  He  was  like  thy  youth,  O  Fingal ! 
when  thou  first  didst  lift  the  spear.  His  face  was  like 


412  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

the  plain  of  the  sun,  when  it  is  bright.  No  darkness 
travelled  over  his  brow.  But  he  came  with  his  thou- 
sands to  aid  the  red-haired  Cairbar.  Now  he  comes 
to  revenge  his  death,  O  king  of  woody  Morven  !' 

"  Let  Cathmor  come,"  replied  the  king,  "  I  love  a 
foe  so  great.  His  soul  is  bright.  His  arm  is  strong. 
His  battles  are  full  of  fame.  But  the  little  soul  is  a 
vapor  that  hovers  round  the  marshy  lake.  It  never 
rises  on  the  green  hill,  lest  the  winds  should  meet  it 
there.  Its  dwelling  is  in  the  cave :  it  sends  forth  the 
dart  of  death  !  Our  young  heroes,  O  warriors!  are  like 
the  renown  of  our  fathers.  They  fight  in  youth.  They 
fall.  Their  names  are  in  song.  Fingal  is  amid  his 
darkening  years.  He  must  not  fall,  as  an  aged  oak, 
across  a  secret  stream.  Near  it  are  the  steps  of  the 
hunter,  as  it  lies  beneath  the  wind.  '  How  has  that 
tree  fallen  ?'  he  says,  and,  whistling,  strides  along. 
Raise  the  song  of  joy,  ye  bards  of  Morven !  Let  our 
souls  forget  the  past.  The  red  stars  look  on  us  from 
the  clouds,  and  silently  descend.  Soon  shall  the  gray 
beam  of  the  morning  rise,  and  show  us  the  foes  of  Cor. 
mac.  Fillan  !  my  son,  take  thou  the  spear  of  the  king. 
Go  to  Mora's  dark-brown  side.  Let  thine  eyes  travel 
over  the  heath.  Observe  the  foes  of  Fingal ;  observe 
the  course  of  generous  Cathmor.  I  hear  a  distant 
sound,  like  falling  rocks  in  the  desert.  But  strike  thou 
thy  shield,  at  times,  that  they  may  not  come  through 
night,  and  the  fame  of  Morven  cease.  I  begin  to  be 
alone,  my  son.  I  dread  the  fall  of  my  renown  !" 

The  voice  of  bards  arose.  The  king  leaned  on  the 
shield  of  Trenmor.  Sleep  descended  on  his  eyes. 
His  future  battles  arose  in  his  dreams.  The  host  are 
sleeping  around.  Dark-haired  Fillan  observes  the  foe. 
His  steps  are  on  the  distant  hill.  We  hear,  at  times, 
his  clanging  shield. 


BOOK  II. 

ARGUMENT. 

rUt.«  book  opens,  we  may  suppose,  about  midnight,  with  a  soliloquy 
ol  Ossian,  who  had  retired  from  the  rest  of  the  army,  to  mourn 
for  his  son  Oscar  Upon  hearing  the  noise  of  Cathmor's  army 
approaching,  he  went  to  find  out  his  brother  Fillan,  who  kept  the 
watch  on  the  hill  of  Mora,  in  the  front  of  Fingal's  army.  In  the 
conversation  of  the  brothers,  the  episode  of  Conar,  the  son  of 
Trenmor,  who  was  the  first  king  of  Ireland,  is  introduced,  which 
lays  open  the  origin  of  the  contests  between  the  Gael  and  the  Fir- 
bolg,  the  two  nations  who  first  possessed  themselves  of  that  island. 
Ossian  kindles  a  fire  on  Mora :  upon  which  Cathmor  desisted 
from  the  design  he  had  formed  of  surprising  the  army  of  the  Cale- 
donians. He  calls  a  council  of  his  chiefs :  reprimands  Foldath 
for  advising  a  night  attack,  as  the  Irish  were  so  much  superior  in 
number  to  the  enemy.  Trie  bard  Fonar  introduces  the  story  of 
Crothar,  the  ancestor  of  the  king,  which  throws  further  light  on 
the  history  of  Ireland,  and  the  original  pretensions  of  the  family 
of  Atha  to  the  throne  of  that  kingdom.  The  Irish  chiefs  lie  down 
to  rest,  and  Cathmor  himself  undertakes  the  watch.  Tn  his  cir- 
cuit round  the  army  he  is  met  by  Ossian.  The  interview  of  the 
two  heroes  is  described.  Cathmor  obtains  a  promise  from  Ossian 
to  order  a  funeral  elegy  to  be  sung  over  the  grave  of  Cairbar :  it 
being  the  opinion  of  the  times,  that  the  souls  of  the  dead  could 
not  be  happy  till  their  elegies  were  sung  by  a  bard.  Morning 
comes.  Cathmor  and  Ossian  part ;  and  the  latter,  casually  meet- 
ing with  Carril  the  son  of  Kinfena,  sends  that  bard,  with  a  funeral 
song,  to  the  tomb  of  Cairbar. 

FATHER  of  heroes  !  O  Trenmor !  High  dweller  of 
eddying  winds !  where  the  dark-red  thunder  marks  the 
troubled  clouds  !  Open  thou  thy  stormy  halls.  Let  the 
bards  of  old  be  near.  Let  them  draw  near  with  songs 
and  their  half  viewless  harps.  No  dweller  of  misty 
valley  comes !  No  hunter  unknown  at  his  streams ! 
It  is  the  car-borne  Oscar,  from  the  field  of  war.  Sud- 
den is  thy  change,  my  son,  from  what  thou  wert  on 
dark  Moi-lena !  The  blast  folds  thee  in  its  skirt,  and 
rustles  through  the  sky  !  Dost  thou  not  behold  thy  fa- 
ther,  at  the  stream  of  night  ?  The  chiefs  of  Morven 
sleep  far  distant.  They  have  lost  no  son  !  But  ve  have 
35* 


414  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

lost  a  hero,  chiefs  of  resounding  Morven  !  Who  could 
equal  his  strength,  when  battle  rolled  against  his  side, 
like  the  darkness  of  crowded  waters  ?  Why  this  cloud 
on  Ossian's  soul  ?  It  ought  to  burn  in  danger.  Erin 
is  near  with  her  host.  The  king  of  Selma  is  alone. 
Alone  thou  shalt  not  be,  my -father,  while  I  can  lift  the 
spear ! 

I  rose  in  all  my  arms.  I  rose  and  listened  to  the 
wind.  The  shield  of  Fillan  is  not  heard.  I  tremble 
for  the  son  of  Fingal.  "  Why  should  the  foe  come  by 
night  ?  Why  should  the  dark-haired  warrior  fall  ?" 
Distant,  sullen  murmurs  rise  ;  like  the  noise  of  the  lake 
of  Lego,  when  its  waters  shrink,  in  the  days  of  frost, 
and  all  its  bursting  ice  resounds.  The  people  of  Lara 
look  to  heaven,  and  foresee  the  storm  !  My  steps  are 
forward  on  the  heath.  The  spear  of  Oscar  is  in  my 
hand  ?  Red  stars  looked  from  high.  I  gleamed  along 
the  night. 

I  saw  Fillan  silent  before  me,  bending  forward  from 
Mora's  rock.  He  heard  the  shout  of  the  foe.  The 
joy  of  his  soul  arose.  He  heard  my  sounding  tread, 
and  turned  his  lifted  spear.  "  Comest  thou,  son  of 
night,  in  peace  ?  Or  dost  thou  meet  my  wrath  ?  The 
foes  of  Fingal  are  mine.  Speak,  or  fear  my  steel.  I 
stand  not,  in  vain,  the  shield  of  Morven's  race." 
"  Never  mayest  thou  stand  in  vain,  son  of  blue-eyed 
Clatho  !  Fingal  begins  to  be  alone.  Darkness  gathers 
on  the  last  of  his  days.  Yet  he  has  two  sons  who 
ought  to  shine  in  war.  Who  ought  to  be  two  beams 
of  light,  near  the  steps  of  his  departure." 

"  Son  of  Fingal,"  replied  the  youth,  "  it  is  not  long 
since  I  raised  the  spear.  Few  are  the  marks  of  my 
sword  in  war.  But  Fillan's  soul  is  fire  !  The  chiefs 
of  Bolga*  crowd  around  the  shield  of  generous  Cath- 

*  The  southern  parts  of  Ireland  went,  for  some  time,  under  the 


TEMORA.  415 

mor.  Their  gathering  is  on  the  heath.  Shall  my  steps 
approach  their  host  ?  I  yielded  to  Oscar  alone  in  the 
strife  of  the  race  of  Cona !" 

"  Fillan,  thou  shall  not  approach  their  host ;  nor  fall 
before  thy  fame  is  known.  My  name  is  heard  in  song ; 
when  needful,  I  advance.  From  the  skirts  of  night  I 
shall  view  them  over  all  their  gleaming  tribes.  Why, 
Fillan,  didst  thou  speak  of  Oscar  1  Why  awake  my 
sigh  !  I  must  forget  the  warrior,  till  the  storm  is  rolled 
away.  Sadness  ought  not  to  dwell  in  danger,  nor  thn 
tear  in  the  eye  of  war.  Our  fathers  forgot  their  fallen 
sons,  till  the  noise  of  arms  was  past.  Then  sorrow 
returned  to  the  tomb,  and  the  song  of  bards  arose. 
The  memory  of  those  who  fell  quickly  followed  the 
departure  of  war :  when  the  tumult  of  battle  is  past, 
the  soul  in  silence  melts  away  for  the  dead. 

"  Conar  was  the  brother  of  Trathal,  first  of  mortal 
men.  His  battles  were  on  every  coast.  A  thousand 
streams  rolled  down  the  blood  of  his  foes.  His  fame 
filled  green  Erin,  like  a  pleasant  gale.  The  nations 
gathered  in  Uilin,  and  they  blessed  the  king ;  the  king- 
of  the  race  of  their  fathers,  from  the  land  of  Selrna. 

"  The  chiefs  of  the  south  were  gathered,  in  the  dark- 
ness of  their  pride.  In  the  horrid  cave  of  Moma  they 
mixed  their  secret  words.  Thither  often,  they  said, 
the  spirits  of  their  fathers  came ;  showing  their  pale 
forms  from  the  chinky  rocks  ;  reminding  them  of  the 
honor  of  Bolga.  '  Why  should  Conar  reign,'  they 
said,  '  the  son  of  resounding  Morven  ?' 

"  They  came  forth,  like  the  streams  of  the  desert, 
with  the  roar  of  their  hundred  tribes.  Cona  was  a  rock 
before  them  :  broken,  they  rolled  on  every  side.  But 

name  of  Bolga,  from  the  Fir-bolg  or  Belgae  of  Britain,  who  settled 
a  colony  there  "  Bolg"  signifies  a  "  quiver,"  from  which  proceeds 
"Fir-holg,"  i.  e.,  "  bowmen:"  so  called  from  (heir  using  bows  more 
than  any'of  (he  neighboring  nations. 


416  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

often  they  returned,  and  the  sons  of  Selma  fell.  The 
king  stood,  among  the  tombs  of  his  warriors.  He  darkly 
bent  his  mournful  face.  His  soul  was  rolled  into  itself: 
and  he  had  marked  the  place  where  he  was  to  fall : 
when  Trathal  came,  in  his  strength,  his  brother  from 
cloudy  Morven.  Nor  did  he  come  alone.  Colgar  was 
at  his  side  :  Colgar  the  son  of  the  king  and  of  white- 
bosomed  Solin-corma. 

"  As  Trenmor,  clothed  with  meteors,  descends  from 
the  halls  of  thunder,  pouring  the  dark  storm  before  him 
over  the  troubled  sea :  so  Colgar  descended  to  battle, 
and  wasted  the  echoing  field.  His  father  rejoiced  over 
the  hero :  but  an  arrow  came  !  His  tomb  was  raised 
without  a  tear.  The  king  was  to  revenge  his  son. 
He  lightened  forward  in  battle,  till  Bolga  yielded  at  her 
streams ! 

"  When  peace  returned  to  the  land :  when  his  blue 
waves  bore  the  king  to  Morven :  then  he  remembered 
his  son,  and  poured  the  silent  tear.  Thrice  did  the 
bards,  at  the  cave  of  Furmono,  call  the  soul  of  Colgar. 
They  called  him  to  the  hills  of  his  land.  He  heard 
them  in  his  mist.  Trathal  placed  his  sword  in  the 
cave,  that  the  spirit  of  his  son  might  rejoice." 

"  Colgar,  son  of  Trathal,"  said  Fillan,  "  thou  wert 
renowned  in  youth !  but  the  king  hath  not  marked  my 
sword,  bright  streaming  on  the  field.  I  go  forth  with 
the  crowd.  I  return  without  my  fame.  But  the  foe 
approaches,  Ossian  !  I  hear  their  murmur  on  the  heath. 
The  sound  of  their  steps  is  like  thunder,  in  the  bosom 
of  the  ground,  when  the  rocking  hills  shake  their  groves, 
and  not  a  blast  pours  from  the  darkened  sky !" 

Ossian  turned  sudden  on  his  spear.  He  raised  the 
flame  of  an  oak  on  high.  I  spread  it  large  on  Mora's 
wind.  Cathmor  stopt  in  his  course.  Gleaming  he 
stood,  like  a  rock,  on  whose  sides  are  the  wandering 
blasts;  which  seize  its  echoing  streams,  and  clothe 


TEMORA.  417 

them  with  ice.  So  stood  the  friend  of  strangers !  The 
winds  lift  his  heavy  locks.  Thou  art  the  tallest  of  the 
race  of  Erin,  king  of  streamy  Atha ! 

"  First  of  bards,"  said  Cathmor,  "  Fonar,  call  the 
chiefs  of  Erin.  Call  red-haired  Cormar  :  dark-browed 
Malthos :  the  sidelong-looking  gloom  of  Maronnan. 
Let  the  pride  of  Foldath  appear.  The  red-rolling  eyo 
of  Turlotho.  Nor  let  Hidalla  be  forgot;  his  voice,  in 
danger,  is  the  sound  of  a  shower,  when  it  falls  in  the 
blasted  vale,  near  Atha's  falling  stream.  Pleasant  is 
its  sound  on  the  plain,  whilst  broken  thunder  travels 
over  the  sky !" 

They  came  in  their  clanging  arms.  They  bent  for- 
ward  to  his  voice,  as  if  a  spirit  of  their  fathers  spoke 
from  a  cloud  of  night.  Dreadful  shone  they  to  the  light ; 
like  the  fall  of  the  stream  of  Bruno,*  when  the  meteor 
lights  it,  before  the  nightly  stranger.  Shuddering  he 
stops  in  his  journey,  and  looks  up  for  the  beam  of  the 
morn ! 

"  Why  delights  Foldath,"  said  the  king,  "  to  pour 
the  blood  of  foes  by  night  ?  Fails  his  arm  in  battle,  in 
the  beams  of  day  ?  Few  are  the  foes  before  us  ;  why 
should  we  clothe  us  in  shades  1  The  valiant  delight  to 
shine  in  the  battles  of  their  land  !  Thy  counsel  was  in 
vain,  chief  of  Moma !  The  eyes  of  Morven  do  not 
sleep.  They  are  watchful  as  eagles  on  their  mossy 
rocks.  Let  each  collect  beneath  his  cloud  the  strength 
of  his  roaring  tribe.  To-morrow  I  move,  in  light,  to 
meet  the  foes  of  Bolga  !  Mighty  was  he  that  is  low,  the 
race  of  Borbar-duthul !" 

"  Not  unmarked,"  said  Foldath,  "  were  my  steps  be- 
fore thy  race.  In  light,  I  met  the  foes  of  Cairbar. 
The  warrior  praised  my  deeds.  But  his  stone  was 

*  Bruno  was  a  place  of  worship,  (Fing.  b.  6.)  in  Craca,  which  ia 
supposed  to  be  one  of  the  isles  of  Shetland. 


418  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

raised  without  a  tear !  No  bard  sung  over  Erin's  king. 
Shall  his  foes  rejoice  along  their  mossy  hills  ?  No ; 
they  must  not  rejoice  !  He  was  the  friend  of  Foldath ! 
Our  words  were  mixed,  in  secret,  in  Moma's  silent 
cave;  whilst  thou,  a  boy  in  the  field,  pursuedst  the 
thistle's  beard.  With  Moma's  sons  I  shall  rush  abroad, 
and  find  the  foe  on  his  dusky  hills.  Fingal  shall  lie 
without  his  song,  the  gray-haired  king  of  Selma." 

"  Dost  thou  think,  thou  feeble  man,"  replied  Cath- 
mor,  half  enraged  :  "  Dost  thou  think  Fingal  can  fall, 
without  his  fame,  in  Erin  ?  Could  the  bards  be  silent 
at  the  tomb  of  Selma's  king ;  the  song  would  burst  in 
secret !  the  spirit  of  the  king  would  rejoice !  It  is 
when  thou  shalt  fall,  that  the  bard  shall  forget  the  song. 
Thou  art  dark,  chief  of  Moma,  though  thine  arm  is  a 
tempest  in  war.  Do  I  forget  the  king  of  Erin,  in  his 
narrow  house  ?  My  soul  is  not  lost  to  Cairbar,  the 
brother  of  my  love  !  1  marked  the  bright  beams  of  joy 
which  travelled  over  his  cloudy  mind,  when  I  returned, 
with  fame,  to  Atha  of  the  streams." 

Tall  they  removed,  beneath  the  words  of  the  king. 
Each  to  his  own  dark  tribe ;  where,  humming,  they 
rolled  on  the  heath,  faint-glittering  to  the  stars :  like 
waves  in  a  rocky  bay,  before  the  nightly  wind.  Be- 
neath  an  oak  lay  the  chief  of  Atha.  His  shield,  a 
dusky  round,  hung  high.  Near  him,  against  a  rock, 
leaned  the  fair  stranger*  of  Inis-huna :  that  beam  of 
light,  with  wandering  locks,  from  Lumon  of  the  roes. 
At  a  distance  rose  the  voice  of  Fonar,  with  the  deeds 
of  the  days  of  old.  The  song  fails,  at  times,  in  Lubar's 
growing  roar. 

"  Crothar,"  began  the  bard,  *"{  first  dwelt  at  Atha's 
mossy  stream  !  A  thousand  oaks,  from  the  mountains, 
formed  his  echoing  hall.  The  gathering  of  the  people 

*  By  "  the  stranger  of  Inis-b  ma,"  is  meant  Sull-mafla. — B  hr.     * 


TEMORA.  419 

was  there,  around  the  feast  of  the  blue-eyed  king.  But 
who,  among  his  chiefs,  was  like  the  stately  Crothar  ? 
Warriors  kindled  in  his  presence.  The  young  sigh  of 
the  virgins  rose.  In  Alnecma*  was  the  warrior  hon- 
ored :  the  first  of  the  race  of  Bolga. 

"  He  pursued  the  chase  in  Ullin :  on  the  moss-cover- 
ed top  of  Drumardo.  From  the  wood  looked  the 
daughter  of  Cathmin,  the  blue-rolling  eye  of  Con-lama. 
Her  sigh  rose  in  secret.  She  bent  her  head,  amidst 
her  wandering  locks.  The  moon  looked  in,  at  night, 
and  saw  the  white  tossing  of  her  arms  ;  for  she  thought 
of  the  mighty  Crothar  in  the  season  of  dreams. 

"  Three  days  feasted  Crothar  with  Cathmin.  On 
Ihe  fourth  they  awaked  the  hinds.  Con-lama  moved 
to  the  chase,  with  all  "her  lovely  steps.  She  met  Cro- 
thar in  the  narrow  path.  The  bow  fell  at  once  from 
her  hand.  She  turned  her  face  away,  and  half  hid  it 
with  her  locks.  The  love  of  Crothar  rose.  He  brought 
the  white-bosomed  maid  to  Atha.  Bards  raised  the 
song  in  her  presence.  Joy  dwelt  round  the  daughter 
of  Cathmin. 

"  The  pride  of  Turloch  rose,  a  youth  who  loved  the 
white-handed  Con-lama.  He  came,  with  battle,  to  Al- 
necma ;  to  Atha  of  the  roes.  Cormul  went  forth  to 
the  strife,  the  brother  of  car-borne  Crothar.  He  went 
forth,  but  he  fell.  The  sigh  of  his  people  rose.  Silent 
and  tall  across  the  stream,  came  the  darkening  strength 
of  Crothar  :  he  rolled  the  foe  from  Alnecma.  He  re- 
turned midst  the  joy  of  Con-lama. 

"  Battle  on  battle  comes.  Blood  is  poured  on  blood. 
The  tombs  of  the  valiant  rise.  Erin's  clouds  arc  hung 
round  with  ghosts.  The  chiefs  of  the  South  gathered 
round  the  echoing  shield  of  Crothar.  He  came,  with 
death  to  the  .paths  of  the  foe.  The  virgins  wept,  by 

*  Alnecma.  or  Alnecmacht,  was  the  ancient  name  of  Connaught. 
Jllin  is  still  the  Irish  name  of  the  province  of  Ulster 


420  TOE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN. 

the  streams  of  Ullin.  They  looked  the  mist  of  the 
hill :  no  hunter  descended  from  its  folds.  Silence 
darkened  in  the  land.  Blasts  sighed  lonely  on  grassy 
tombs. 

"  Descending  like  the  eagle  of  heaven,  with  all  his 
rustling  winds,  when  he  forsakes  the  blast  with  joy,  the 
son  of  Trenmor  came ;  Conar,  arm  of  death,  from 
Morven  of  the  groves.  He  poured  his  might  along 
green  Erin.  Death  dimly  strode  behind  his  swori. 
The  sons  of  Bolga  fled  from  his  course,  as  from  a 
stream,  that,  bursting  from  the  stormy  desert,  rolls  the 
fields  together,  with  all  their  echoing  woods.  Crothar 
met  him  in  battle :  but  Alnecma's  warriors  fled.  The 
king  of  Atha  slowly  retired,  in  the  grief  of  his  soul.  He 
afterward  shone  in  the  south ;  but  dun  as  the  sun  of 
autumn,  when  he  visits,  in  his  robes  of  mist,  Lara  of 
dark  streams.  The  withered  grass  is  covered  with 
dew ;  the  field,  though  bright,  is  sad." 

"  Why  wakes  the  bard  before  me,"  said  Cathmor, 
"  the  memory  of  those  who  fled  ?  Has  some  ghost, 
from  his  dusky  cloud,  bent  forward  to  thine  ear ;  tc 
frighten  Cathmor  from  the  field,  with  the  tales  of  old  ? 
Dwellers  of  the  skirts  of  night,  your  voice  is  but  a  blast 
to  me ;  which  takes  the  gray  thistle's  head,  and  strews 
its  beard  on  streams.  Within  my  bosom  is  a  voice. 
Others  hear  it  not.  His  soul  forbids  the  king  of  Erin 
to  shrink  back  from  war." 

Abashed,  the  bard  sinks  back  on  night ;  retired,  he 
bends  above  a  stream.  His  thoughts  are  on  the  days 
of  Atha,  when  Cathmor  heard  his  song  with  joy.  His 
teai-s  came  rolling  down.  The  winds  are  in  his  beard. 
Erin  sleeps  around.  No  sleep  comes  down  on  Cath- 
mor's  eyes.  Dark,  in  his  soul,  he  saw  the  spirit  of 
low-.aid  Cairbar.  He  saw  him,  without  his  song,  roll- 
ed  in  a  blast  of  night.  He  rose.  His  steps  were 
rouni  the  host.  He  struck,  at  times,  his  echoing 


TEMOKA.  421 

shield.  The  sound  reached  Ossian's  ear  on  Mora's 
mossy  brow. 

"  Fillan,"  I  said,  "  the  foes  advance.  I  hear  the 
shield  of  war.  Stand  thou  in  the  narrow  path.  Os- 
sian  shall  mark  their  course.  If  over  my  fall  the  host 
should  pour  ;  then  be  thy  buckler  heard.  Awake  the 
king  on  his  heath,  lest  his  fame  should  fly  away."  I 
strode  in  all  my  rattling  arms ;  wide  bounding  over  a 
stream  that  darkly  winded  in  the  field,  before  the  king 
of  Atha.  Green  Atha's  king  with  lifted  spear,  came 
forward  on  my  course.  Now  would  we  have  mixed  in 
horrid  fray,  like  two  contending  ghosts,  that  bending 
forward  from  two  clouds,  send  forth  the  roaring  winds ; 
did  not  Ossian  behold,  on  high,  the  helmet  of  Erin's 
kings.  The  eagle's  wing  spread  above  it,  rustling  in 
the  breeze.  A  red  star  looked  through  the  plumes.  I 
stopt  the  lifted  spear. 

"  The  helmet  of  kings  is  before  me  !  Who  art  thou, 
son  of  night  ?  Shall  Ossian's  spear  be  renowned,  when 
thou  art  lowly  laid  ?"  At  once  he  dropt  the  gleaming 
lance.  Growing  before  me  seemed  the  form.  He 
stretched  his  hand  in  night.  He  spoke  the  words  of  kings. 

"  Friend  of  the  spirits  of  heroes,  do  I  meet  thee  thus 
in  shades  ?  I  have  wished  for  thy  stately  steps  in  Atha, 
in  the  days  of  joy.  Why  should  my  spear  now  arise  ? 
The  sun  must  behold  us,  Ossian,  when  we  bend,  gleam- 
ing in  the  strife.  Future  warriors  shall  mark  the  place, 
and  shuddering  think  of  other  years.  They  shall  mark 
it,  like  the  haunt  of  ghosts,  pleasant  and  dreadful  to  the 
soul." 

"  Shall  it  then  be  forgot,'"'  I  said,  "  where  we  meet 
in  peace  ?  Is  the  remembrance  of  battles  always 
pleasant  to  the  soul  ?  Do  not  we  behold,  with  joy,  the 
place  where  our  fathers  feasted  ?  But  our  eyes  are 
full  of  tears,  on  the  fields  of  their  war.  This  stone 
shah  rise  with  all  its  moss  and  speak  to  other  years. 
36 


422  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN. 

'  Here  Cathmor  and  Ossian  met ;  the  warriors  met  in 
peace  !'  When  thou,  O  stone,  shall  fail :  when  Lubar'a 
stream  shall  roll  away ;  then  shall  the  traveller  come, 
and  bend  here,  perhaps,  in  rest.  When  the  darkened 
moon  is  rolled  over  his  head,  our  shadowy  forms  may 
come,  and,  mixing  with  his  dreams,  remind  him  of  hia 
place.  But  why  turnest  thou  so  dark  away,  son  of 
Borbar-duthul  ?" 

"  Not  forgot,  son  of  Fingal,  shall  we  ascend  these 
winds.  Our  deeds  are  streams  of  light,  before  the 
eyes  of  bards.  But  darkness  is  rolled  on  Atha :  the 
king  is  low  without  his  song ;  still  there  was  a  beam 
towards  Cathmor,  from  his  stormy  soul ;  like  the  moon 
in  a  cloud,  amidst  the  dark-red  course  of  thunder." 

"Son  of  Erin,"  I  replied,  "my  wrath  dwells  not  in 
his  earth.  My  hatred  flies  on  eagle  wings,  from  the 
foe  that  is  low.  He  shall  hear  the  song  of  bards. 
Cairbar  shall  rejoice  on  his  winds." 

Cathmor's  swelling  soul  arose.  He  took  the  dagger 
from  his  side,  and  placed  it  gleaming  in  my  hand. 
He  placed  it  in  my  hand,  with  sighs,  and  silent  strode 
away.  Mine  eyes  followed  his  departure.  He  dimly 
gleamed,  like  the  form  of  a  ghost,  which  meets  a  trav- 
eller by  night,  on  the  dark-skirted  heath.  His  words 
are  dark,  like  songs  of  old :  with  morning  strides  the 
unfinished  shade  away ! 

Who  comes  from  Luba's  vale  ?  from  the  skirts  of 
the  morning  mist  ?  The  drops  of  heaven  are  on  his 
head.  His  steps  are  in  the  paths  of  the  sad.  It  is 
Carril  of  other  times.  He  comes  from  Tura's  silent 
cave.  I  behold  it  dark  hi  the  rock,  through  the  thin 
folds  of  mist.  There,  perhaps,  Cuthullin  sits,  on  the 
blast  which  bends  its  trees.  Pleasant  is  the  song  of 
the  morning  from  the  bard  of  Erin. 

"  The  waves  crowd  away,"  said  Carril.  "  They 
crowd  away  for  fear.  They  hear  the  sound  of  thy 


TEMORA.  423 

coming  forth,  0  sun !  Terrible  is  thy  beauty,  son  of 
heaven,  when  death  is  descending  on  thy  locks :  when 
thou  rollest  thy  vapors  before  thee,  over  the  blasted 
host.  But  pleasant  is  thy  beam  to  the  hunter,  sitting 
by  the  rock  in  a  storm,  when  thou  showest  thyself  from 
the  parted  cloud,  and  brightenest  his  dewy  locks  •  he 
looks  down  on  the  streamy  vale,  and  beholds  the  de- 
scent of  roes !  How  long  shalt  thou  rise  on  war,  and 
roll,  a  bloody  shield,  through  heaven  ?  I  see  the  death 
of  heroes,  dark  wandering  over  thy  face  !" 

"  Why  wander  the  words  of  Carril  ?"  I  said.  v  Does 
the  son  of  heaven  mourn  ?  He  is  unstained  in  his 
course,  ever  rejoicing  in  his  fire.  Roll  on,  thou  care- 
less  light.  Thou  too,  perhaps,  must  fall.  Thy  dark- 
ening hour  may  seize  thee,  struggling  as  thou  rollest 
through  thy  sky.  But  pleasant  is  the  voice  of  the  bard  : 
pleasant  to  Ossian's  soul !  It  is  like  the  shower  of  the 
morning,  when  it  comes  through  the  rustling  vale,  on 
which  the  sun  looks  through  mist,  just  rising  from  his 
rocks.  But  this  is  no  time,  O  bard  !  to  sit  down,  at  the 
strife  of  song.  Fingal  is  in  arms  on  the  vale.  Thou 
seest  the  flaming  shield  of  the  king.  His  face  darkens 
between  his  locks.  He  beholds  the  wide  rolling  of 
Erin.  Does  not  Carril  behold  that  tomb,  beside  the 
roaring  stream  ?  Three  stones  lift  their  gray  heads, 
beneath  a  bending  oak.  A  king  is  lowly  laid !  Give 
thou  his  soul  to  the  wind.  He  is  the  brother  of  Coth- 
mor !  Open  his  airy  hall !  Let  thy  song  be  a 
of  joy  to  Cairbar's  darkened  ghost !" 


BOOK  III. 

ARGUMENT. 

Morning  coming  on,  Fingal,  after  a  speech  to  his  people,  devolve! 
the  commancfon  Gaul,  the  son  of  Morni ;  it  being  the  custom  of 
the  times,  that  the  king  should  not  engage,  till  me  necessity  of 
affairs  required  his  superior  valor  and  conduct.  The  king  and 
Ossian  retire  to  the  hill  of  Cormul,  which  overlooked  the  field 
of  battle.  The  bards  sing  the  war-song.  The  general  conflict 
is  described.  Gaul,  the  son  of  Morni,  distinguishes  himself";  killa 
Tur-lathon,  chief  of  Moruth,  and  other  chiefs  of  lesser  name. 
On  the  other  hand,  Foldath,  who  commanded  the  Irish  army 
(for  Cathmor,  after  the  example  of  Fingal,  kept  himself  from  bat- 
tle,) fights  gallantly ;  kills  Connal,  chief  oi  Dun-lora,  and  ad- 
vances to  engage  Gaul  himself.  Gaul,  in  the  mean  time,  being 
wounded  in  the  hand,  by  a  random  arrow,  is  covered  by  Fillan 
the  son  of  Fingal,  who  performs  prodigies  of  valor.  Night  comes 
on.  The  horn  of  Fingal  recalls  his  army.  The  bards  meet  them, 
with  a  congratulatory  song,  in  which  the  praises  of  Gaul  ana 
Fillan  are  particularly  celebrated.  The  chiefs  sit  down  at  a 
feast ;  Fingal  misses  Connal.  The  episode  of  Connal  and  Duth- 
caron  is  introduced ;  which  throws  further  light  on  the  ancient 
history  of  Ireland.  Carril  is  despatched  to  raise  the  tomb  of  Con- 
nal. The  action  of  this  book  takes  up  the  second  day  from  the 
opening  of  the  poem. 

"  WHO  is  that  at  blue-streaming  Lubar  ?  Who,  by 
the  bending  hill  of  roes  ?  Tall  he  leans  on  an  oak 
torn  from  high,  by  nightly  winds.  Who  but  Comhal's 
son,  brightening  in  the  last  of  his  fields  ?  His  gray 
hair  is  on  the  breeze.  He  half  unsheaths  the  sword  of 
Luno.  His  eyes  are  turned  to  Moi-lena,  to  the  dark 
moving  of  foes.  Dost  thou  hear  the  voice  of  the  king  ? 
It  is  like  the  bursting  of  a  stream  in  the  desert,  when  it 
jomes,  between  its  echoing  rocks,  to  the  blasted  field 
)f  the  sun ! 

"  Wide-skirted  comes  down  the  foe !  Sons  of 
voody  Selma,  arise  !  Be  ye  like  the  rocks  of  our  land, 
•n  whose  brown  sides  are  the  rolling  of  streams.  A 


TEMORA.  425 

beam  of  joy  comes  on  my  soul.  I  see  the  foe  mighty 
before  me.  It  is  when  he  is  feeble,  that  the  sighs  of 
Fingal  are  heard :  lest  death  should  come  without  re- 
nown, and  darkness  dwell  on  his  tomb.  Who  shall 
lead  the  war,  against  the  host  of  Alnecma  ?  It  is  only 
when  danger  grows,  that  my  sword  shall  shine.  Sucn 
was  the  custom,  heretofore,  of  Trenmor  the  ruler  of 
winds !  and  thus  descended  to  battle  the  blue-shielded 
Trathal !" 

The  chiefs  bend  towards  the  king.  Each  darkly 
seems  to  claim  the  war.  They  tell,  by  halves,  their 
mighty  deeds.  They  turn  their  eyes  on  Erin.  But 
far  before  the  rest  the  son  of  Morni  stands.  Silent  he 
stands,  for  who  had  not  heard  of  the  battles  of  Gaul  1 
They  rose  within  his  soul.  His  hand,  in  secret,  seized 
the  sword.  The  sword  which  he  brought  from  Stru- 
mon,  when  the  strength  of  Morni  failed.  On  his  spear 
leans  Fillan  of  Selma,  in  the  wandering  of  his  locks. 
Thrice  he  raises  his  eyes  to  Fingal :  his  voice  thrice 
fails  him  as  he  speaks.  My  brother  could  not  boast  of 
battles  :  at  once  he  strides  away.  Bent  over  a  distant 
stream  he  stands :  the  tear  hangs  in  his  eye.  He 
strikes,  at  times,  the  thistle's  head,  with  his  inverted 
spear.  Nor  is  he  unseen  of  Fingal.  Sidelong  he  be- 
holds his  son.  He  beholds  him  with  bursting  joy ;  and 
turns,  amid  his  crowded  soul.  In  silence  turns  the 
king  towards  Mora  of  woods.  He  hides  the  big  tear 
M'ith  his  locks.  At  length  his  voice  is  heard. 

"  First  of  the  sons  of  Morni !  Thou  rock  that  de- 
fiest  the  storm  !  Lead  thou  my  battle  for  the  race  of 
low-laid  Cormac.  No  boy's  staff  is  thy  spear :  no 
harmless  beam  of  light  thy  sword.  Son  of  Morni 
of  steeds,  behold  the  foe  !  Destroy  !  Fillan,  observe 
the  chief!  He  is  not  calm  in  strife:  nor  burns  he, 
heedless  in  battle.  My  son,  observe  the  chief !  He 
is  strong  as  Lubar's  stream,  but  never  foams  and 
86* 


4  *6  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

roars  High  on  cloudy  Mora,  Fingal  shall  behold  the 
war.  Stand,  Ossian,  near  thy  father,  by  the  falling 
stream.  Raise  the  voice,  O  bards  !  Selma,  move  be- 
neath the  sound.  It  is  my  latter  field.  Clothe  it  ovei 
with  light." 

As  the  sudden  rising  of  winds  ;  or  distant  rolling  of 
troubled  seas,  when  some  dark  ghost  in  wrath  heaves 
the  billows  over  an  isle  :  an  isle  the  seat  of  mist  on 
the  deep,  for  many  dark-brown  years  !  So  terribls  is 
the  sound  of  the  host,  wide  moving  over  the  field. 
Gaul  is  tall  before  them.  The  streams  glitter  within 
his  strides.  The  bards  raise  the  song  by  his  side. 
He  strikes  his  shield  between.  On  the  skirts  of  the 
blast  the  tuneful  voices  rise. 

"  On  Crona,"  said  the  bards,  "  there  bursts  a  stream 
by  night.  It  swells  in  its  own  dark  course,  till  morn- 
ing's early  beam.  Then  comes  it  white  from  the  hill, 
with  the  rocks  and  their  hundred  groves.  Far  be  my 
steps  from  Crona.  Death  is  tumbling  there.  Be  ye  a 
stream  from  Mora,  sons  of  cloudy  Morven  ! 

"  Who  rises,  from  his  car,  on  Clutha  ?  The  hills  are 
troubled  before  the  king  !  The  dark  woods  echo  round, 
and  lighten  at  his  steel.  See  him  amidst  the  foe,  like 
Colgach's  sportful  ghost :  when  he  scatters  the  clouds 
and  rides  the  eddying  winds  !  It  is  Morni  of  bounding 
steeds  !  Be  like  thy  father,  O  Gaul ! 

"  Selma  is  opened  wide.  Bards  take  the  trembling 
harps.  Ten  youths  bear  the  oak  of  the  feast.  A  dis- 
tant sunbeam  marks  the  hill.  The  dusky  waves  of  the 
blast  fly  over  the  fields  of  grass.  Why  art  thou  silent, 
O  Selma?  The  king  returns  with  all  his  fame.  Did 
not  the  battle  roar  ?  yet  peaceful  is  his  brow !  It 
roared,  and  Fingal  overcame.  Be  like  thy  father,  O 
Fillan  !" 

They  move  beneath  the  song.  High  wave  their 
arms,  as  rushy  fields  beneath  autumnal  winds.  On 


TEMORA.  427 

Mora  stands  the  king  in  arms.  Mist  flies  round  hia 
buckler  abroad ;  as  aloft  it  hung  on  a  bough,  on  Cor- 
mul's  mossy  rock.  In  silence  I  stood  by  Fingal,  and 
turned  my  eyes  on  Cromla's  wood :  lest  I  should  be- 
hold the  host,  and  rush  amid  my  swelling  soul.  My 
loot  is  forward  on  the  heath.  I  glittered,  tall  in  steel : 
like  the  falling  stream  of  Tromo,  which  nightly  winds 
bind  over  with  ice.  The  boy  sees  it  on  high  gleaming 
to  the  early  beam  :  towards  it  he  turns  his  ear,  and 
wonders  why  it  is  so  silent. 

Nor  bent  over  a  stream  is  Cathmor,  like  a  youth  in 
a  peaceful  field.  Wide  he  drew  forward  the  war,  a 
dark  and  troubled  wave.  But  when  he  beheld  Fingal 
on  Mora,  his  generous  pride  arose.  "  Shall  the  chief 
of  Atha  fight,  and  no  king  in  the  field  ?  Foldath,  lead 
my  people  forth,  thou  art  a  beam  of  fire." 

Forth  issues  Foldath  of  Moma,  like  a  cloud,  the  robe 
of  ghosts.  He  drew  his  sword,  a  flame  from  his  side. 
He  bade  the  battle  move.  The  tribes,  like  ridgy  waves, 
dark  pour  their  strength  around.  Haughty  is  his  stride 
before  them.  His  red  eye  rolls  in  wrath.  He  calls 
Cormul,  chief  of  Dun-ratho  ;  and  his  words  were 
heard. 

"  Cormul,  thou  beholdest  that  path.  It  winds  green 
behind  the  foe.  Place  thy  people  there ;  lest  Selma 
should  escape  from  my  sword.  Bards  of  green-valleyed 
Erin,  let  no  voice  of  yours  arise.  The  sons  of  Morven 
must  fall  without  song.  They  are  the  foes  of  Cairbar. 
Hereafter  shall  the  traveller  meet  their  dark,  thick 
mist,  on  Lena,  where  it  wanders  with  their  ghosts, 
beside  the  reedy  lake.  Never  shall  they  rise,  without 
song,  to  the  dwelling  of  winds." 

Cormul  darkened  as  he  went.  Behind  him  rushed 
his  tribe.  They  sunk  beyond  the  rock.  Gaul  spoke 
to  Fillan  of  Selma;  as  his  eye  puisued  the  course  of 
the  dark-eyed  chief  of  Dun-ratho.  "  Thou  beholdest 


429  THE    POEMS   OF   OSSIAN. 

the  steps  of  Cormul  !  Let  thine  arm  be  strong  !  When 
he  is  low,  son  of  Fingal,  remember  Gaul  in  war.  Here 
I  fall  forward  into  battle,  amid  the  ridge  of  shields !" 

The  sign  of  death  ascends  :  the  dreadful  sound  of 
Morni's  shield.  Gaul  pours  his  voice  between.  Fin- 
gal  rises  on  Mora.  He  saw  them  from  wing  to  wing, 
bending  at  once  in  strife.  Gleaming  on  his  own  dark 
hill,  stood  Cathmor,  of  streamy  Atha.  The  kings  were 
like  two  spirits  of  heaven,  standing  each  on  his  gloomy 
cloud  :  when  they  pour  abroad  the  winds,  and  lift  the 
roaring  seas.  The  blue  tumbling  of  waves  is  before 
them,  marked  with  the  paths  of  whales.  They  them- 
selves are  calm  and  bright.  The  gale  lifts  slowly  their 
locks  of  mist. 

What  beam  of  light  hangs  high  in  air  ?  What  beam 
but  Morni's  dreadful  sword  ?  Death  is  strewed  on  thy 
paths,  O  Gaul  !  Thou  foldest  them  together  in  thy 
rage.  Like  a  young  oak  falls  Tur-lathon,  with  his 
branches  round  him.  His  high-bosomed  spouse  stretches 
her  white  arms,  in  dreams,  to  the  returning  chief,  as 
she  sleeps  by  gurgling  Moruth,  in  her  disordered  locks. 
It  is  his  ghost,  Oichoma.  The  chief  is  lowly  laid. 
Hearken  not  to  the  winds  for  Tur-lathon's  echoing  shield. 
It  is  pierced,  by  his  streams.  Its  sound  is  passed  away. 

Not  peaceful  is  the  hand  of  Foldath.  He  winds  his 
course  in  blood.  Connal  met  him  in  fight.  They 
mixed  their  clanging  steel.  Why  should  mine  eyes 
behold  them  ?  Connal,  thy  locks  are  gray  !  Thou 
wert  the  friend  of  strangers,  at  the  moss-covered  rock 
of  Dun-lora.  When  the  skies  were  rolled  together  : 
then  thy  feast  was  spread.  The  stranger  heard  the 
winds  without ;  and  rejoiced  at  thy  burning  oak.  Why, 
son  of  Duth-caron,  art  thou  laid  in  blood  ?  the  blasted 
tree  bends  above  thee.  Thy  shield  lies  broken  near. 
Thy  blood  mixes  with  the  stream,  thou  breaker  of  the 
shields ! 


TEMORA.  429 

Ossian  took  the  spear,  in  his  wrath.  But  Gaul  rush- 
ed  forward  on  Foldath.  The  feeble  pass  by  his  side : 
his  rage  is  turned  on  Moma's  chief.  Now  they  had 
raised  their  deathful  spears  :  unseen  an  arrow  came. 
It  pierced  the  hand  of  Gaul.  His  steel  fell  sounding 
to  earth.  Young  Fillan  came,  with  Cormul's  shield! 
He  stretched  it  large  before  the  chief.  Foldath  sent 
his  shouts  abroad,  and  kindled  all  the  field  :  as  a  blast 
that  lifts  the  wide-winged  flame  over  Lumon's  echoing 
groves, 

"  Son  of  blue-eyed  Clatho,"  said  Gaul,  "  O  Fillan  ! 
thou  art  a  beam  from  heaven  ;  that,  coming  on  the 
troubled  deep,  binds  up  the  tempest's  wing.  Cormul 
is  fallen  before  thee.  Early  art  thou  in  the  fame  of 
thy  fathers.  Rush  not  too  far,  my  hero.  I  cannot  lift 
the  spear  to  aid.  I  stand  harmless  in  battle  :  but  my 
voice  shall  be  poured  abroad.  The  sons  of  Selma  shall 
hear,  and  remember  my  former  deeds." 

His  terrible  voice  rose  on  the  wind.  The  host  bends 
forward  in  fight.  Often  had  they  heard  him  at  Stru- 
mon,  when  he  called  them  to  the  chase  of  the  hinds. 
He  stands  tall  amid  the  war,  as  an  oak  in  the  skirts  of 
a  storm,  which  now  is  clothed  on  high,  in  mist :  then 
shows  its  broad  waving  head.  The  musing  hunter  lifts 
his  eye,  from  his  own  rushy  field  ! 

My  soul  pursues  thee,  O  Fillan!  through  the  path 
of  thy  fame.  Thou  rollest  the  foe  before  thee.  Now 
Foldath,  perhaps,  may  fly :  but  night  comes  down  with 
its  clouds.  Cathmor's  horn  is  heard  on  high.  The 
sons  of  Selma  hear  the  voice  of  Fingal,  from  Mora's 
gathered  mist.  The  bards  pour  their  song,  like  dew, 
on  the  returning  war. 

"  Who  comes  from  Strumon,"  they  said,  "  amid  her 
wandering  locks  ?  She  is  mournful  in  her  steps,  and 
lifts  her  blue  eyes  towards  Erin.  Why  art  thou  sad, 
Evir-choma  ?  Who  is  like  thy  chief  in  renown  ?  He 


430  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAX. 

descended  dreadful  to  battle  ;  he  returns,  like  a  light 
from  a  cloud.  He  raised  the  sword  in  wrath :  they 
shrunk  before  blue-shielded  Gaul ! 

ft  Joy,  like  the  rustling  gale,  comes  on  the  soul  cf  the 
king.  He  remembers  the  battles  of  old  ;  the  days 
wherein  his  fathers  fought.  The  days  of  old  return 
on  Fingal's  mind,  as  he  beholds  the  renown  of  his  son. 
As  the  sun  rejoices,  from  his  cloud,  over  the  tree  his 
beams  have  raised,  as  it  shades  its  lonely  head  on  the 
heath  ;  so  joyful  is  the  king  over  Fillan  ! 

"  As  the  rolling  of  thunder  on  hills,  when  Lara's 
fields  are  still  and  dark,  such  are  the  steps  of  Selma, 
pleasant  and  dreadful  to  the  ear.  They  return  with 
their  sound,  like  eagles  to  their  dark-browed  rock,  after 
the  prey  is  torn  on  the  field,  the  dun  sons  of  the 
bounding  hind.  Your  fathers  rejoice  from  their  clouds, 
sons  of  streamy  Selma  !" 

Such  was  the  nightly  voice  of  bards,  on  Mora  of  the 
hinds.  A  flame  rose,  from  a  hundred  oaks,  which 
winds  had  torn  from  Cormul's  steep.  The  feast  is 
spread  in  the  midst ;  around  sat  the  gleaming  chiefs. 
Fingal  is  there  in  his  strength.  The  eagle  wing  of  his 
helmet  sounds.  The  rustling  blasts  of  the  west  unequal 
rush  through  night.  Long  looks  the  king  in  silence 
round  ;  at  length  his  words  are  heard. 

"  My  soul  feels  a  want  in  our  joy.  I  behold  a  breach 
among  my  friends.  The  head  of  one  tree  is  low.  The 
squally  wind  pours  in  on  Selma.  Where  is  the  chief 
of  Dun-lora  1  Ought  Connal  to  be  forgot  at  the  feast  ? 
When  did  he  forget  the  stranger,  in  the  midst  of  hia 
echoing  hall  ?  Ye  are  silent  in  my  presence  !  Connal 
is  then  no  more  !  Joy  meet  thee,  O  warrior !  like  a 
stream  of  light.  Swift  be  thy  course  to  thy  fathers, 
along  the  roaring  winds.  Ossian,  thy  soul  is  fire  ; 
kindle  the  memory  of  the  king.  Awake  the  battles  of 
Connal,  when  first  he  shone  in  war.  The  locks  of 


TEMURA.  431 

Cotmal  were  gray.  His  days  of  youth  were  mixed 
with  mine.  In  one  day  Dulh-caron  first  strung  our 
bows  against  the  roes  of  Dun-lora." 

"  Many,"  I  said,  "  are  our  paths  to  battle  in  green- 
valleyed  Erin.  Often  did  our  sails  arise,  over  the 
blue  tumbling  waves  ;  when  we  came  in  other  days, 
/)  aid  the  race  of  Cona.  The  strife  roared  once  iu 
Alnecma,  at  the  foam-covered  streams  of  Duth-ula. 
With  Cormac  descended  to  battle  Duth-caron,  from 
cloudy  Selma.  Nor  descended  Duth-caron  alone  ;  his 
son  was  by  his  side,  the  long-haired  youth  of  Connal, 
lifting  the  first  of  his  spears.  Thou  didst  command 
them,  O  Fingal  !  to  aid  the  king  of  Erin. 

"  Like  the  bursting  strength  of  ocean,  the  sons  of 
Bolga  rushed  to  war.  Colc-ulla  was  before  them,  the 
chief  of  blue  stream  Atha.  The  battle  was  mixed  on 
the  plain.  Cormac  shone  in  his  own  strife,  bright  as 
the  forms  of  his  fathers.  But,  far  before  the  rest,  Duth- 
caron  hewed  down  the  foe.  Nor  slept  the  arm  of 
Connal  by  his  father's  side.  Colc-ulla  prevailed  on  the 
plain :  like  scattered  mist  fled  the  people  of  Cormac. 

"  Then  rose  the  sword  of  Duth-caron,  and  the  steel 
of  broad-shielded  Connal.  They  shaded  their  flying 
friends,  like  two  rocks  with  their  heads  of  pine.  Night 
came  down  on  Duth-ula  ;  silent  strode  the  chiefs  over 
the  field.  A  mountain-stream  roared  across  the  path, 
nor  could  Duth-caron  bound  over  its  course.  '  Why 
stands  my  father  ?'  said  Connal,  <  I  hear  the  rushing 
foe.' 

"  '  Fly,  Connal,'  he  said.  '  Thy  father's  strength 
begins  to  fail.  I  come  wounded  from  battle.  Here 
let  me  rest  in  night.'  '  But  thou  shalt  not  remain 
alone,'  said  Connal's  bursting  sigh.  '  My  shield  is 
an  eagle's  wing  to  cover  the  king  of  Dun-lora.'  He 
bends  dark  above  his  father.  The  mighty  Duth-caron 
dies ! 


432  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSTAII, 

"'  Day  rose,  and  night  returned.  No  lonely  bard 
appeared,  deep  musing  on  the  heath :  and  could  Con- 
nal  leave  the  tomb  of  his  father,  till  he  should  receive 
his  fame  ?  He  bent  the  bow  against  the  roes  of  Duth- 
ula.  He  spread  the  lonely  feast.  Seven  nights  he  laid 
his  head  on  the  tomb,  and  saw  his  father  in  his  dreams. 
He  saw  him  rolled,  dark  in  a  blast,  like  the  vapor  of 
reedy  Lego.  At  length  the  steps  of  Colgan  came,  the 
bard  of  high  Temora.  Duth-caron  received  his  fame, 
and  brightened,  as  he  rose  on  the  wind." 

"  Pleasant  to  the  ear,"  said  Fingal,  "  is  the  praise 
of  the  kings  of  men  ;  when  their  bows  are  strong  in 
battle  ;  when  they  soften  at  the  sight  of  the  sad.  Thus 
let  my  name  be  renowned,  when  the  bards  shall  lighten 
my  rising  soul.  Carril,  son  of  Kinfena  !  take  the  bards, 
and  raise  a  tomb.  To-night  let  Connal  dwell  within 
his  narrow  house.  Let  not  the  soul  of  the  valiant 
wander  on  the  winds.  Faint  glimmers  the  moon  at 
Moi-lena,  through  the  broad-headed  groves  of  the  hill ! 
Raise  stones,  beneath  its  beam,  to  all  the  fallen  in  war. 
Though  no  chiefs  were  they,  yet  their  hands  were 
strong  in  fight.  They  were  my  rock  in  danger  :  the 
mountain  from  which  I  spread  my  eagle  wings.  Thence 
am  I  renowned.  Carril,  forget  not  the  low  !" 

Loud,  at  once,  from  the  hundred  bards,  rose  the  song 
of  the  tomb.  Carril  strode  before  them  ;  they  are  the 
murmur  of  streams  behind  his  steps.  Silence  dwells 
in  the  vales  of  Moi-lena,  where  each,  with  its  own  dark 
rill,  is  winding  between  the  hills.  I  heard  the  voice 
of  the  bards,  lessening,  as  they  moved  along.  I  leaned 
forward  from  my  shield,  and  felt  the  kindling  of  my 
soul.  Half  formed,  the  words  of  my  song  burst  forth 
upon  the  wind.  So  hears  a  tree,  on  the  vale,  the  voice 
of  spring  around.  It  pours  its  green  leaves  to  the  sun. 
It  shakes  its  lonely  head.  The  hum  of  the  mountain 


TEMORA.  433 

bee  is  near  it ;  the  hunter  sees  it  with  joy,  from  the 
blasted  heath. 

Young  Fillan  at  a  distance  stood.  His  helmet  lay 
glittering  on  the  ground.  His  dark  hair  is  loose  to  the 
blast.  A  beam  of  light  is  Clatho's  son !  He  heard 
the  words  of  the  king  with  joy.  He  leaned  forward 
on  his  spear. 

"  My  son,"  said  car-borne  Fingal,  "  I  saw  thy  deeds, 
and  my  soul  was  glad."  "  The  fame  of  our  fathers," 
I  said,  "  bursts  from  its  gathering  cloud.  Thou  art 
brave,  son  of  Clatho  !  but  headlong  in  the  strife.  So 
did  not  Fingal  advance,  though  he  never  feared  a  foe. 
Let  thy  people  be  a  ridge  behind.  They  are  thy 
strength  in  the  field.  Then  shall  thou  be  long  renown- 
ed, and  behold  the  tombs  of  the  old.  The  memory  of 
the  past  returns,  my  deeds  in  other  years :  when  first 
I  descended  from  ocean  on  the  green-valleyed  isle." 

We  bend  towards  the  voice  of  the  king.    The  moon 
looks  abroad  from  her  cloud.     The  gray -skirted  mist 
is  near  :  the  dwelling  of  the  ghosts  ! 
37 


BOOK  IV. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  second  night  continues.  Fingal  relates,  at  the  feast,  his  owl 
first  expedition  into  Ireland,  ana  his  marriage  with  Rqs-ciznna, 
the  daughter  of  Connac,  king  of  that  island.  The  Irish  thiela 
convene  in  the  presence  of  Cathmor.  The  situation  of  the  king 
described.  The  story  of  Sul-malla,  the  daughter  of  Conmor,  king 
of  Inis-huna,  who,  in  the  disguise  of  a  young  warrior,  hath  fol- 
lowed Cathmor  to  the  war.  The  sullen  behavior  of  Foldath,  who 
had  commanded  in  the  battle  of  the  preceding  day,  renews  the 
difference  between  him  and  Malthos  :  but  CatEmor,  interposing 
ends  it.  The  chiefs  feast,  and  hear  the  song  of  Fonar  the  bara. 
Cathmor  returns  to  rest,  at  a  distance  from  the  army.  The  ghost 
of  his  brother  Cairbar  appears  to  him  in  a  dream  ;  and  obscurely 
foretells  the  issue  of  the  war.  The  soliloquy  of  the  king.  He 
discovers  Sul-malla.  Morning  comes.  Her  soliloquy  closes  the 
book. 

"  BENEATH  an  oak,"  said  the  king,  "  I  sat  on  Selma's 
streamy  rock,  when  Connal  rose,  from  the  sea,  with 
the  broken  spear  of  Duth-caron.  Far  distant  stood  thn 
youth.  He  turned  away  his  eyes.  He  remembered 
the  steps  of  his  father,  on  his  own  green  hill.  I  dark- 
ened in  my  place.  Dusky  thoughts  flew  over  my  soul. 
The  kings  of  Erin  rose  before  me.  I  half  unsheathed 
the  sword.  Slowly  approached  the  chiefs.  They 
lifted  up  their  silent  eyes.  Like  a  ridge  of  clouds, 
they  wait  for  the  bursting  forth  of  my  voice.  My 
voice  was,  to  them,  a  wind  from  heaven,  to  roll  the 
mist  away. 

"  I  bade  my  white  sails  to  rise,  before  the  roar  of 
Cona's  wind.  Three  hundred  youths  looked,  from  their 
waves,  on  Fingal's  bossy  shield.  High  on  the  mast 
t  hung,  and  marked  the  dark-blue  sea.  But  when 
night  came  down,  I  struck,  at  times,  the  warning  boss  : 
I  struck,  and  looked  on  high,  for  fiery-haired  Ul-erin.* 

*  Ul-erin,  "  the  guide  to  Ireland,"  a  star  known  by  that  name  in 
the  days  of  Fingal 


TEMORA.  435 

Nor  absent  was  the  star  of  heaven.  It  travelled  red 
between  the  clouds.  I  pursued  the  lovely  beam,  on 
the  faint-gleaming  deep.  With  morning,  Erin  rose  in 
mist.  We  came  into  the  bay  of  Moi-lena,  where  its 
blue  waters  tumbled,  in  the  bosom  of  echoing  woods. 
Here  Cormac,  in  his  secret  halls,  avoids  the  strength 
of  Colc-ulla.  Nor  he  alone,  avoids  the  foe.  The  blue 
eye  of  Ros-cranna  is  there  :  Ros-cranna,  white-handed 
maid,  the  daughter  of  the  king  ! 

"  Gray,  on  his  pointless  spear,  came  forth  the  aged 
steps  of  Cormac.  He  smiled  from  his  waving  locks  ; 
but  grief  was  in  his  soul.  He  saw  us  few  before  him, 
and  his  sigh  arose.  '  I  see  the  arms  of  Trenmor,'  he 
said  ;  '  and  these  are  the  steps  of  the  king  !  Fingal  ! 
thou  art  a  beam  of  light  to  Cormac's  darkened  soul ! 
Early  is  thy  fame,  my  son  :  but  strong  are  the  foes 
of  Erin.  They  are  like  the  roar  of  streams  in  the 
land,  son  of  car-borne  Comhal !'  '  Yet  they  may  be 
rolled  away,'  I  said,  in  my  rising  soul.  '  We  are  not 
of  the  race  of  the  feeble,  king  of  blue-shielded  hosts  ! 
Why  should  fear  come  amongst  us,  like  a  ghost  of 
night  ?  The  soul  of  the  valiant  grows  when  foes  in- 
crease in  the  field.  Roll  no  darkness,  king  of  Erin, 
on  the  young  in  war !' 

"  The  bursting  tears  of  the  king  came  down.  He 
seized  my  hand  in  silence.  '  Race  of  the  daring 
Trenmor !'  at  length  he  said,  '  I  roll  no  cloud  before 
Ihee.  Thou  burnest  in  the  fire  of  thy  fathers.  I  be- 
hold thy  fame.  It  marks  thy  course  in  battle,  like  a 
stream  of  light.  But  wait  the  coming  of  Cairbar  ;  my 
so~  must  join  thy  sword.  He  calls  the  sons  of  Erin 
from  all  their  distant  streams.' 

"  We  came  to  the  hall  of  the  king,  where  it  rose  in 
the  midst  of  rocks,  on  whose  dark  sides  were  the  marks 
of  streams  of  old.  Broad  oaks  bend  around  with  their 
moss.  The  thick  birch  is  waving  near.  Half  hid,  in 


436  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

her  shadowy  grove,  Ros-cranna  raises  the  song.  Her 
white  hands  move  on  the  harp.  I  beheld  her  blue- 
rolling  eyes.  She  was  like  a  spirit  of  heaven  half 
folded  in  the  skirt  of  a  cloud  ! 

"  Three  days  we  feasted  at  Moi-lena.  She  rises 
bright  in  my  troubled  soul.  Cormac  beheld  me  dark. 
He  gave  the  white-bosomed  maid.  She  comes  with 
bending  eye,  amid  the  wandering  of  her  heavy  locks. 
She  came  !  Straight  the  battle  roared.  Colc-ulla  ap- 
peared :  I  took  my  spear.  My  sword  rose,  with  my 
people  against  the  ridgy  foe.  Alnecma  fled.  Colc-ulla 
fell.  Fingal  returned  with  fame. 

"  Renowned  is  he,  O  Fillan,  who  fights  in  the 
strength  of  his  host.  The  bard  pursues  his  steps 
through  the  land  of  the  foe.  But  he  who  fights  alone, 
few  are  his  deeds  to  other  times  !  He  shines  to-day,  a 
mighty  light.  To-morrow  he  is  low.  One  song  con- 
tains his  fame.  His  name  is  one  dark  field.  He  is 
forgot ;  but  where  his  tomb  sends  forth  the  tufted 
grass." 

Such  are  the  words  of  Fingal,  on  Mora  of  the  roes. 
Three  bards,  from  the  rock  of  Cormul,  pour  down  the 
pleasing  song.  Sleep  descends  in  the  sound,  on  the 
broad-skirted  host.  Carril  returned  with  the  bards, 
from  the  tomb  of  Dunlora's  chief.  The  voice  of  morn- 
ing shall  not  come  to  the  dusky  bed  of  Duth-caron. 
No  more  shalt  thou  hear  the  tread  of  roes  around  thy 
narrow  house ! 

As  roll  the  troubled  clouds,  around  a  meteor  of  night, 
»vhen  they  brighten  their  sides  with  its  light  along  the 
heaving  sea ;  so  gathers  Erin  around  the  gleaming 
form  of  Cathmor.  He,  tall  in  the  midst,  careless  lifts, 
at  times,  his  spear :  as  swells  or  falls  the  sound  of 
Fonar's  distant  harp.  Near  him  leaned,  against  a  rock, 
Sul-malla  of  blue  eyes,  the  white-bosomed  daughter  of 
Conmor,  king  of  Inis-huna.  To  his  aid  came  blue- 


TEMORA.  437 

shielded  Cathmor,  and  rolled  his  foes  away.  Sul-malla 
beheld  him  stately  in  the  hall  of  feasts.  Nor  careless 
rolled  the  eyes  of  Cathmor  on  the  long-haired  maid ! 

The  third  day  arose,  when  Fithil  came,  from  Erin 
of  the  streams.  He  told  of  the  lifting  up  of  the  shield 
in  Selma :  he  told  of  the  danger  of  Cairbar.  Cathmor 
raised  the  sail  at  Cluba ;  but  the  winds  were  in  other 
lands.  Three  days  he  remained  on  the  coast,  and 
,urned  his  eyes  on  Conmor's  halls.  He  remembered 
the  daughter  of  strangers,  and  his  sigh  arose.  Now 
when  the  winds  awaked  the  wave :  from  the  hill  came 
a  youth  in  arms ;  to  lift  the  sword  with  Cathmor,  in 
his  echoing  fields.  It  was  the  white-armed  Sul-malla. 
Secret  she  dwelt  beneath  her  helmet.  Her  steps  were 
in  the  path  of  the  king :  on  him  her  blue  eyes  rolled 
with  joy,  when  he  lay  by  his  rolling  streams  :  But  Cath- 
mor thought  that  on  Lumon  she  still  pursued  the  roes. 
He  thought,  that  fair  on  a  rock,  she  stretched  her 
white  hand  to  the  wind  ;  to  feel  its  course  from  Erin, 
the  green  dwelling  of  her  love.  He  had  promised  to 
return,  with  his  white-bosomed  sails.  The  maid  is 
near  thee,  O  Cathmor :  leaning  on  her  rock. 

The  tall  forms  of  the  chiefs  stand  around ;  all  but 
dark-browed  Foldath.  He  leaned  against  a  distant 
tree,  rolled  into  his  haughty  soul.  His  bushy  hair 
whistles  in  the  wind.  At  times,  bursts  the  hum  of 
a  song.  He  struck  the  tree  at  length,  in  wrath ;  and 
rushed  before  the  king  !  Calm  and  stately,  to  the  beam 
of  the  oak,  arose  the  form  of  young  Hidalla.  His  hair 
falls  round  his  blushing  cheek,  in  the  wreaths  of  wav- 
ing light.  Soft  was  his  voice  in  Clonra,  in  the  valley 
of  his  fathers.  Soft  was  his  voice  when  he  touched 
the  harp,  in  the  hall  near  his  roaring  stream  ! 

"  King  of  Erin,"  said  Hidalla,  "  now  is  the  time  to 
feast.  Bid  the  voice  of  bards  arise.  Bid  them  roll  the 
night  away.  The  soul  returns,  from  song,  more  ter- 
37* 


438  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

rible  to  Wi»r.  Darkness  settles  on  Erin.  From  hill 
to  hill  bend  the  skirted  clouds.  Far  and  gray,  on  the 
heath,  the  dreadful  strides  of  ghosts  are  seen :  the 
ghosts  of  those  who  fell  bend  forward  to  their  song. 
Bid,  O  Cathmor !  the  harps  to  rise,  to  brighten  the 
dead,  on  their  wandering  blasts." 

"  Be  all  the  dead  forgot,"  said  Foldath's  bursting 
wrath.  "  Did  not  I  fail  in  the  field  ?  Shall  I  then  hear 
the  song  ?  Yet  was  not  my  course  harmless  in  war. 
Blood  was  a  stream  around  my  steps.  But  the  feeble 
were  behind  me.  The  foe  has  escaped  from  my  sword. 
In  Clonra's  vale  touch  thou  the  harp.  Let  Dura  an- 
swer to  the  voice  of  Hidalla.  Let  some  maid  look, 
from  the  wood,  on  thy  long  yellow  locks.  Fly  from 
Lubar's  echoing  plain.  This  is  the  field  of  heroes  !" 

"  King  of  Erin,"  Malthos  said,  "  it  is  thine  to  lead 
in  war.  Thou  art  a  fire  to  our  eyes,  on  t'.ie  dark- 
brown  field.  Like  a  blast  thou  hast  passed  over  hosts. 
Thou  hast  laid  them  low  in  blood.  But  who  has  heard 
thy  words  returning  from  the  field  ?  The  wrathful  de- 
light in  death  ;  their  remembrance  rests  on  the  wounds 
of  their  spear.  Strife  is  folded  in  their  thoughts:  their 
words  are  ever  heard.  Thy  course,  chief  of  Moma, 
was  like  a  troubled  stream.  The  dead  were  rolled  on 
thy  path  :  but  others  also  lift  the  spear.  We  were  not 
feeble  behind  thee  :  but  the  foe  was  strong." 

Cathmor  beheld  the  rising  rage  and  bending  forward 
of  either  chief:  for,  half  unsheathed,  they  held  their 
swords,  and  rolled  their  silent  eyes.  Now  would  they 
have  mixed  in  horrid  fray,  had  not  the  wrath  of  Cath- 
mor burned.  He  drew  his  sword  :  it  gleamed  through 
night,  to  the  high-flaming  oak  !  "  Sons  of  pride,"  said 
the  king,  "  allay  your  swelling  souls.  Retire  in  night. 
Why  should  my  rage  arise  ?  Should  I  contend  with 
both  in  arms !  It  is  no  time  for  strife !  Retire,  ye  clouds, 
at  my  feast.  Awake  my  soul  no  more." 


TEMORA.  43 9 

They  sunk  from  the  king  on  either  side  ;  like  two 
columns  of  morning  mist,  when  the  sun  rises,  between 
them,  on  his  glittering  rocks.  Dark  is  their  rolling  on 
either  side :  each  towards  its  reedy  pool ! 

Silent  sat  the  chiefs  at  the  feast.  They  look,  at  times, 
jn  Atha's  king,  where  he  strode,  on  his  rock,  amid  his 
settling  soul.  The  host  lie  along  the  field.  Sleep  de- 
scends on  Moi-lena.  The  voice  of  Fonar  ascends 
alone,  beneath  his  distant  tree.  It  ascends  in  the  praise 
of  Cathmor,  son  of  Larthon  of  Lumon.  But  Cathmor 
did  not  hear  his  praise.  He  lay  at  the  roar  of  a 
stream.  The  rustling  breeze  of  night  flew  over  his 
whistling  1<  O;s. 

His  brother  came  to  his  dreams,  half  seen  from  his 
low-hung  cloud.  Joy  rose  darkly  in  his  face.  He  had 
heard  the  song  of  Carril.*  A  blast  sustained  his  dark- 
skirted  cloud  :  which  he  seized  in  the  bosom  of  night, 
as  he  rose,  with  his  fame,  towards  his  airy  hall.  Half 
mixed  with  the  noise  of  the  stream,  he  poured  his  feeble 
words. 

"  Joy  meet  the  soul  of  Cathmor.  His  voice  was 
heard  on  Moi-lena.  The  bard  gave  his  song  to  Cair- 
bar.  He  travels  on  the  wind.  My  form  is  in  my 
father's  hall,  like  the  gliding  of  a  terrible  light,  which 
darts  across  the  desert,  in  a  stormy  night.  No  bard 
shall  be  wanting  at  thy  tomb  when  thou  art  lowly  laid. 
The  sons  of  song  love  the  valiant.  Cathmor,  thy  name 
is  a  pleasant  gale.  The  mournful  sounds  arise  !  On 
Lubar's  field  there  is  a  voice  !  Louder  still,  ye  shadowy 
ghosts  !  The  dead  were  full  of  fame  !  Shrilly  swells 
the  feeble  sound.  The  rougher  blast  alone  is  heard  ! 
Ah !  soon  is  Cathmor  low  !"  Rolled  into  himself  he 
flew,  wide  on  the  bosom  of  winds.  The  old  oak  felt 
his  departure,  and  shook  its  whistling  head.  Cathmor 

••  The  funeral  elegy  at  the  tomb  of  Cairbar. 


440  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

starts  from  rest.  He  takes  his  deathful  spear.  He 
lifts  his  eyes  around.  He  sees  but  dark-skirted  night. 

"  It  was  the  voice  of  the  king,"  he  said.  "  But  now 
his  form  is  gone.  Unmarked  is  your  path  in  the  air, 
ye  children  of  the  night.  Often,  like  a  reflected  beam, 
are  ye  seen  in  the  desert  wild :  but  ye  retire  in  your 
blasts,  before  our  steps  approach.  Go,  then,  ye  feeble 
race  !  Knowledge  with  you  there  is  none  !  Your  joys 
are  weak,  and  like  the  dreams  of  our  rest,  or  the  light- 
winged  thought,  that  flies  across  the  soul.  Shall  Cath- 
mor  soon  be  low  ?  Darkly  laid  in  his  narrow  house  ? 
Where  no  morning  comes,  with  her  half-opened  eyes? 
Away,  thou  shade !  to  fight  is  mine !  All  further  thought 
away  !  I  rush  forth  on  eagles'  wings,  to  seize  my  beam 
of  fame.  In  the  lonely  vale  of  streams,  abides  the 
narrow  soul.  Years  roll  on,  seasons  return,  but  he  is 
still  unknown.  In  a  blast  comes  cloudy  death,  and 
lays  his  gray  head  low.  His  ghost  is  folded  in  the 
vapor  of  the  fenny  field.  Its  course  is  never  on  hills, 
nor  mossy  vales  of  wind.  So  shall  not  Cathmor  de- 
part. No  boy  in  the  field  was  he,  who  only  marks  the 
bed  of  roes,  upon  the  echoing  hills.  My  issuing  forth 
was  with  kings.  My  joy  in  dreadful  plains :  where 
broken  hosts  are  rolled  away,  like  seas  before  the 
wind." 

So  spoke  the  king  of  Alnecma,  brightening  in  hia 
rising  soul.  Valor,  like  a  pleasant  flame,  is  gleaming 
within  his  breast.  Stately  is  his  stride  on  the  heath  ! 
The  beam  of  east  is  poured  around.  He  saw  his  gray 
host  on  the  field,  wide  spreading  their  ridges  in  light. 
He  rejoiced,  like  a  spirit  of  heaven,  whose  steps  came 
forth  on  the  seas,  when  he  beholds  them  peaceful  round, 
and  all  the  winds  are  laid.  But  soon  he  awakes  the 
waves,  and  rolls  them  large  to  some  echoing  shore. 

On  the  rushy  bank  of  a  stream  slept  the  daughter  of 
Inis-huna.  The  helmet  had  fallen  from  her  head. 


Up-df  iiienv  i.r.iV.  ufar-lr.-- 


TEMORA.  441 

Her  dreams  were  in  the  lands  of  her  fathers.  There 
morning  is  on  the  field.  Gray  streams  leap  down  from 
the  rocks.  The  breezes,  in  shadowy  waves,  fly  over 
the  rushy  fields.  There  is  the  sound  that  prepares  for 
the  chase.  There  the  moving  of  warriors  from  the 
hall.  But  tall  above  the  rest  is  seen  the  hero  of  streamy 
Atha.  He  bends  his  eye  of  love  on  Sul-malla,  from  his 
stately  steps.  She  turns,  with  pride,  her  face  away, 
and  careless  bends  the  bow. 

Such  were  the  dreams  of  the  maid  when  Cathmor  of 
Atha  came.  He  saw  her  fair  face  before  him,  in  the 
midst  of  her  wandering  locks.  He  knew  the  maid  of 
Lumon.  What  should  Cathmor  do  ?  His  sighs  arise. 
His  tears  come  down.  But  straight  he  turns  away. 
"  This  is  no  time,  king  of  Atha,  to  awake  thy  secret 
soul.  The  battle  is  rolled  before  thee  like  a  troubled 
stream." 

He  struck  that  warning  boss,*  wherein  dwelt  the 
voice  of  war.  Erin  rose  around  him,  like  the  sound 
of  eagle  wing.  Sul-malla  started  from  sleep,  in  her 
disordered  locks.  She  seized  the  helmet  from  earth. 
She  trembled  in  her  place.  "  Why  should  they  know 
in  Erin  of  the  daughter  of  Inis-huna  ?"  She  remem- 
bered the  race  of  kings.  The  pride  of  her  soul  arose ! 
Her  steps  are  behind  a  rock,  by  the  blue-winding 
stream  of  a  vale;  where  dwelt  the  dark-brown  hind 
ere  yet  the  war  arose,  thither  came  the  voice  of  Cath- 
mor, at  times,  to  Sul-malla's  ear.  Her  soul  is  darkly 
sad.  She  pours  her  words  on  wind. 

"  The  dreams  of  Inis-huna  departed.     They  are  dis- 

*  In  ord«»r  to  understand  this  passage,  it  is  necessary  to  look  to 
the  description  of  Cathmor's  shield  in  the  seventh  book.  Thia 
shield  had  seven  principal  bosses,  the  sound  of  each  of  which,  when 
struck  with  a  spear,  conveyed  a  particular  order  from  the  king  to 
his  tribes.  The  sound  of  one  of  them,  as  here,  was  the  signal  for 
the  army  to  assemble. 


442  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAN. 

persed  from  my  soul.  I  hear  not  the  chase  in  my 
land.  I  am  concealed  in  the  skirt  of  war.  I  look 
forth  from  my  cloud.  No  beam  appears  to  light  my 
path.  I  behold  my  warriors  low ;  for  the  broad- 
shielded  king  is  near.  He  that  overcomes  in  danger, 
Fingal,  from  Selma  of  spears  !  Spirit  of  departed  Con. 
mor  !  are  thy  steps  on  the  bosom  of  winds  ?  Comest 
thou,  at  times,  to  other  lands,  father  of  sad  Sul-malla  ? 
Thou  dost  come !  I  have  heard  thy  voice  at  night ; 
while  yet  I  rose  on  the  wave  to  Erin  of  the  streams. 
The  ghosts  of  fathers,  they  say,  call  away  the  souls  of 
their  race,  while  they  behold  them  lonely  in  the  midst 
of  wo.  Call  me,  my  father,  away  !  When  Cathmor  ia 
low  on  earth,  then  shall  Sul-malla  be  lonely  in  the 
midst  of  wo !" 


BOOK  V. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  poet,  after  a  short  address  to  the  harp  of  Cona,  cfe»  tribes  the 
arrangement  of  both  armies  on  either  side  of  the  rhi-r  Lubar 
Finffal  gives  the  command  to  Fillan ;  but  at  the  same  t»ivr  orders 
Gaul,  the  son  of  Morni,  who  had  been  wounded  in  tht  hond  in 
the  preceding  battle,  to  assist  him  with  his  counsel.  TJv  Mmy 
of  the  Fir-bofe  is  commanded  by  Fpldath.  The  general  onset  is 
described.  The  great  actions  of  Fillan.  He  kills  Rothmar  and 
Culmin.  But  when  Fillan  conquers  in  one  wing,  Foldath  pre&ses 
hard  on  the  other.  He  wounds  Dermid,  the  son  of  Duthno,  and 
puts  the  whole  wing  to  flight.  Dermid  deliberates  with  himself, 
and,  at  last,  resolves  to  put  a  stop  to  the  progress  of  Foldath,  by 
engaging  him  in  single  combat.  When  the  two  chiefs  were  ap- 
proaching towards  one  another,  Fillan  came  suddenly  to  the  re- 
lief of  Dermid ;  engaged  Foldath,  and  killed  him.  The  behavior 
of  Malthos  towards  the  fallen  Foldath.  Fillan  puts  the  whole 
army  of  the  Fir-bolg  to  flight.  The  book  closes  with  an  address 
to  Clatho,  the  mother  of  that  hero 

THOTJ  dweller  between  the  shields  that  hang,  on  high, 
in  Ossian's  hall !  Descend  from  thy  place,  O  harp,  and 
let  me  hear  thy  voice  !  Son  of  Alpin,  strike  the  string. 
Thou  must  awake  the  soul  of  the  bard.  The  murmur 
of  Lora's  stream  lias  rolled  the  tale  away.  I  stand  in 
the  cloud  of  years.  Few  are  its  openings  towards  the 
past ;  and  when  the  vision  comes,  it  is  but  dim  ana 
dark.  I  hear  thee,  harp  of  Selma  !  my  soul  returns, 
like  a  breeze,  which  the  sun  brings  back  to  the  vale, 
where  dwelt  the  lazy  mist. 

Lubar  is  bright  before  me  in  the  windings  of  its 
vale.  On  either  side,  on  their  hills,  arise  the  tall  forma 
of  the  kings.  Their  people  are  poured  around  them, 
bending  forward  to  their  words :  as  if  their  fathers 
spoke,  descending  from  the  winds.  But  they  them- 
selves are  like  two  rocks  in  the  midst ;  each  with  its 
dark  head  of  pines,  when  they  are  seen  in  the  desert, 


444  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN. 

above  low. sailing  mist.  High  on  their  face  are  streams 
which  spread  their  foam  on  blasts  of  wind  ! 

Beneath  the  voice  of  Cathmor  pours  Erin,  like  the 
sound  of  flame.  Wide  they  come  down  to  Lubar. 
Before  them  is  the  stride  of  Foldath.  But  Cathmor 
retires  to  his  hill,  beneath  his  bending  oak.  The  turn- 
bling  of  a  stream  is  near  the  king.  He  lifts,  at  times, 
his  gleaming  spear.  It  is  a  flame  to  his  people,  in  the 
midst  of  war.  Near  him  stands  the  daughter  of  Con- 
mor,  leaning  on  a  rock.  She  did  not  rejoice  at  the 
strife.  Her  soul  delighted  not  in  blood.  A  valley 
spreads  green  behind  the  hill,  with  its  three  blue 
streams.  The  sun  is  there  in  silence.  The  dun  moun- 
tain roes  come  down.  On  these  are  turned  the  eyes  of 
Sul-malla  in  her  thoughtful  mood. 

Fingal  beholds  Cathmor,  on  high,  the  son  of  Borbar- 
duthul !  he  beholds  the  deep  rolling  of  Erin,  on  the 
darkened  plain.  He  strikes  that  warning  boss,  which 
bids  the  people  to  obey,  when  he  sends  his  chief  before 
them,  to  the  field  of  renown.  Wide  rise  their  spears 
to  the  sun.  Their  echoing  shields  reply  around.  Fear, 
like  a  vapor,  winds  not  among  the  host :  for  he,  the 
king,  is  near,  the  strength  of  streamy  Selma.  Glad- 
ness brightens  the  hero.  We  hear  his  words  with  joy. 

"  Like  the  coming  forth  of  winds,  is  the  sound  of 
Selma's  sons !  They  are  mountain  waters,  determined 
in  their  course.  Hence  is  Fingal  renowned.  Hence 
is  his  name  in  other  lands.  He  was  not  a  lonely  beam 
in  danger :  for  your  steps  were  always  near !  But 
never  was  Fingal  a  dreadful  form,  in  your  presence, 
darkened  into  wrath.  My  voice  was  no  thunder  to 
your  ears.  Mine  eyes  sent  forth  no  death.  When  the 
haughty  appeared,  I  beheld  them  not.  They  were  for- 
got at  my  feasts.  Like  mist  they  melted  away.  A 
young  beam  is  before  you  !  Few  are  his  paths  to  war ! 
They  are  few,  but  he  is  valiant.  Defend  my  dark- 


TEMORA.  445 

haired  son.  Bring  Fillan  back  with  joy.  Hereafter 
he  may  stand  alone.  His  form  is  like  his  fathers. 
His  soul  is  a  flame  of  their  fire.  Son  of  car-borne 
Morni,  move  behind  the  youth.  Let  thy  voice  reach 
his  ear,  from  the  skirts  of  war.  Not  unobserved  rolls 
battle  before  thee,  breaker  of  the  shields." 

The  king  strode,  at  once,  away  to  Cormul's  lofty 
rock.  Intermitting  darts  the  light  from  his  shield,  as 
slow  the  king  of  heroes  moves.  Sidelong  rolls  his  eye 
o'er  the  heath,  as  forming  advance  the  lines.  Grace- 
ful fly  his  half-gray  locks  round  his  kingly  features, 
now  lightened  with  dreadful  joy.  Wholly  mighty  is 
the  chief!  Behind  him  dark  and  slow  I  moved.  Straight 
came  forward  the  strength  of  Gaul.  His  shield  hung 
loose  on  its  thong.  He  spoke,  in  haste,  to  Ossian. 
"  Bind,  son  of  Fingal,  this  shield  !  Bind  it  high  to  the 
side  of  Gaul.  The  foe  may  behold  it,  and  think  I  lift 
the  spear.  If  I  should  fall,  let  my  tomb  be  hid  in  the 
field  ;  for  fall  I  must  without  fame.  Mine  arm  cannot 
lift  the  steel.  Let  not  Evir-choma  hear  it,  to  blush  be 
tween  her  locks.  Fillan,  the  mighty  behold  us !  Let 
us  not  forget  the  strife.  Why  should  they  come  from 
their  hills,  to  aid  our  flying  field !" 

He  strode  onward,  with  the  sound  of  his  shield.  My 
voice  pursued  him  as  he  went.  "  Can  the  son  of  Morni 
fall,  without  his  fame  in  Erin  ?  But  the  deeds  of  the 
mighty  are  forgot  by  themselves.  They  rush  earless 
over  the  fields  of  renov/n.  Their  words  are  never 
heard  !"  I  rejoiced  over  the  steps  of  the  chief.  I 
strode  to  the  rock  of  the  king,  where  he  sat,  in  his 
wandering  locks,  amid  the  mountain  wind  ' 

In  two  dark  ridges  bend  the  host  towards  each  other, 
at  Lubar.  Here  Foldath  rises  a  pillar  of  darkness  ; 
tnere  brightens  the  youth  of  Fillan.  Each,  with  his 
spear  in  the  stream,  sent  forth  the  voice  of  war.  Gaul 
struck  the  shield  of  Selma.  At  once  they  plunge  in 
38 


446  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

battle  !  Steel  pours  its  gleam  on  steel :  like  the  fall  of 
streams  shone  the  field,  when  they  mix  their  foam  to- 
gether, from  two  dark-browed  rocks !  Behold  he 
comes,  the  son  of  fame !  He  lays  the  people  low ! 
Deaths  sit  on  blasts  around  him !  Warriors  strew  thy 
paths,  O  Fillan ! 

Rothmar,  the  shield  of  warriors,  stood  between  two 
chinky  rocks.  Two  oaks,  which  winds  had  bent  from 
high,  spread  their  branches  on  either  side.  He  rolls 
his  darkening  eyes  on  Fillan,  and,  silent,  shades  his 
friends.  Fingal  saw  the  approaching  fight.  The 
hero's  soul  arose.  But  as  the  stone  of  Loda*  falls, 
shook,  at  once,  from  rocking  Drumanard,  when  spirits 
heave  the  earth  in  their  wrath;  so  fell  blue-shielded 
Rothmar. 

Near  are  the  steps  of  Culmin ;  the  youth  came, 
bursting  into  tears.  Wrathful  he  cut  the  wind,  ere  yet 
he  mixed  his  strokes  with  Fillan.  He  had  first  bent 
the  bow  with  Rothmar,  at  the  rock  of  his  own  blue 
streams.  There  they  had  marked  the  place  of  the  roe, 
as  the  sunbeam  flew  over  the  fern.  Why,  son  of  Cul- 
allin !  why,  Culmin,  dost  thou  rush  on  that  beam  of 
light  ?f  It  is  a  fire  that  consumes.  Son  of  Cul-allir, 
retire.  Your  fathers  were  not  equal  in  the  glittering 
strife  of  the  field.  The  mother  of  Culmin  remains  in 
the  hall.  She  looks  forth  on  blue-rolling  Strutha.  A 
whirlwind  rises,  on  the  stream,  dark-eddying  round  the 
ghost  of  her  son.  His  dogs:j:  are  howling  in  their 
place.  His  shield  is  bloody  in  the  hall.  "  Art  thou 
fallen,  my  fair-haired  son,  in  Erin's  dismal  war  ?" 

*  By  "  the  stone  of  Loda"  is  meant  a  place  of  worship  among 
the  Scandinavians. 

t  The  poet  metaphorically  calls  Fillan  a  beam  of  light. 

J  Dogs  were  thought  to  be  sensible  of  the  death  of  their  mastei, 
let  it  happen  at  ever  so  great  a  distance.  It  was  also  the  opinion  of 
the  times,  that  the  arms,  which  warriors  left  at  home,  became 
bloody  when  they  themselves  fell  in  battle. 


TEMORA.  447 

As  a  roe,  pierced  in  secret,  lies  panting,  by  her  wont- 
ed streams  ;  the  hunter  surveys  her  feet  of  wind  !  He 
remembers  her  stately  bounding  before.  So  lay  the 
son  .of  Cul-allin  beneath  the  eye  of  Fillan.  His  hair 
is  rolled  in  a  little  stream.  His  blood  wanders  on  his 
shield.  Still  his  hand  holds  the  swdrd,  that  failed  him 
in  the  midst  of  danger.  "  Thou  art  fallen,"  said  Fil- 
lan, "  ere  yet  thy  fame  was  heard.  Thy  father  sent 
thee  to  war.  He  expects  to  hear  of  thy  deeds.  He 
is  gray,  perhaps,  at  his  streams.  His  eyes  are  towards 
Moi-lena.  But  thou  shalt  not  return  with  the  spoil  of 
the  fallen  foe !" 

Fillan  pours  the  flight  of  Erin  before  him,  over  the 
resounding  heath.  But,  man  on  man,  fell  Morven  be- 
fore the  dark-red  rage  of  Foldath  :  for,  far  on  the  field, 
he  poured  the  roar  of  half  his  tribes.  Dermid  stands 
before  him  in  wrath.  The  sons  of  Selma  gathered 
around.  But  his  shield  is  cleft  by  Foldath.  His  peo- 
ple fly  over  the  heath. 

Then  said  the  foe  in  his  pride,  "  They  have  fled. 
My  fame  begins !  Go,  Malthos,  go  bid  Cathmor  guard 
the  dark  rolling  of  ocean  ;  that  Fingal  may  not  escape 
from  my  sword.  He  must  lie  on  earth.  Beside  some 
fen  shall  his  tomb  be  seen.  It  shall  rise  without  a 
song.  His  ghost  shall  hover,  in  mist,  over  the  reedy 
pool." 

Malthos  heard,  with  darkening  doubt.  He  rolled 
his  silent  eyes.  He  knew  the  pride  of  Foldath.  He 
looked  up  to  Fingal  on  his  hills  ;  then  darkly  turning, 
in  doubtful  mood,  he  plunged  his  sword  in  war. 

In  Clone's  narrow  vale,  where  bend  two  trees  above 
the  stream,  dark,  in  his  grief,  stood  Duthno's  silent 
son.  The  blood  pours  from  the  side  of  Dermid.  His 
shield  is  broken  near.  His  spear  leans  against  a  stone. 
Why,  Dermid,  why  so  sad  ?  "  I  hear  the  roar  of  battle. 
My  people  are  alone.  My  steps  are  slow  on  tl.e  heath  j 


448  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

and  no  shield  is  mine.  Shall  he  then  prevail  ?  It  is 
then  after  Dermid  is  low  !  I  will  call  thee  forth,  O 
Foldath,  and  meet  thee  yet  in  fight." 

He  took  his  spear,  with  dreadful  joy.  The  son  of 
Morni  came.  "  Stay,  son  of  Duthno,  stay  thy  speed. 
Thy  steps  are  marked  with  blood.  No  bossy  shield  is 
thine.  Why  shouldst  thou  fall  unarmed  ?" — "  Son  of 
Morni,  give  thou  thy  shield.  It  has  often  rolled  back 
the  war.  I  shall  stop  the  chief  in  his  course.  Son  of 
Morni,  behold  that  stone  !  It  lifts  its  gray  head  through 
grass.  There  dwells  a  chief  of  the  race  of  Dermid. 
Place  me  there  in  night." 

He  slowly  rose  against  the  hill.  He  saw  the  troubled 
field :  the  gleaming  ridges  of  battle,  disjointed  and 
broken  around.  As  distant  fires,  on  heath  by  night, 
now  seem  as  lost  in  smoke :  now  rearing  their  red 
streams  on  the  hill,  as  blow  or  cease  the  winds ;  so  met 
the  intermitting  war  the  eye  of  broad-shielded  Dermid. 
Through  the  host  are  the  strides  of  Foldath,  like  some 
dark  ship  on  wintry  waves,  when  she  issues  from  be- 
tween two  isles  to  sport  on  resounding  ocean  ! 

Dermid  with  rage  beholds  his  course.  He  strives 
to  rush  along.  But  he  fails  amid  his  steps  ;  and  the 
big  tear  comes  down.  He  sounds  his  father's  horn. 
He  thrice  strikes  his  bossy  shield.  He  calls  thrice  the 
name  of  Foldath,  from  his  roaring  tribes.  Foldath, 
with  joy,  beholds  the  chief.  He  lifts  aloft  his  bloody 
spear.  As  a  rock  is  marked  with  streams,  that  fell 
troubled  down  its  side  in  a  storm  ;  so  streaked  with 
wandering  blood,  is  the  dark  chief  of  Moma !  The 
host  on  either  side  withdraw  from  the  contending  kings. 
They  raise,  at  once,  their  gleaming  points.  Rushing 
comes  Fillan  of  Selma.  Three  paces  back  Foldath  with- 
draws, dazzled  with  that  beam  of  light,  which  came,  as 
issuing  from  a  cloud,  to  save  the  wounded  chief.  Grow- 
ing in  his  pride  he  stands.  He  calls  forth  all  his  steel. 


TEMORA.  449 

As  meet  two  broad-winged  eagles,  in  their  sounding 
strife,  in  winds :  so  rush  the  two  chiefs,  on  Moi-lena, 
into  gloomy  fight.  By  turns  are  the  steps  of  the 
kings*  forward  on  their  rocks  above ;  for  now  the 
dusky  war  seems  to  descend  on  their  swords.  Cath- 
mor  feels  the  joy  of  warriors,  on  his  mossy  hil  1 :  their 
joy  in  secret,  when  dangers  rise  to  match  their  souls. 
His  eye  is  not  turned  on  Lubar,  but  on  Selma's  dread- 
ful  king.  He  beholds  him,  on  Mora,  rising  in  his  arms. 

Foldath  falls  on  his  shield.  The  spear  of  Fillan 
pierced  the  king.  Nor  looks  the  youth  on  the  fallen, 
but  onward  rolls  the  war.  The  hundred  voices  of  death 
arise.  "  Stay,  son  of  Fingal,  stay  thy  speed.  Be- 
loldest  thou  not  that  gleaming  form,  a  dreaful  sign  of 
death  ?  Awaken  not  the  king  of  Erin.  Return,  son 
of  blue-eyed  Clatho." 

Malthos  beholds  Foldath  low.  He  darkly  stands 
above  the  chief.  Hatred  is  rolled  from  his  soul.  He 
seems  a  rock  in  a  desert,  on  whose  dark  side  are  the 
trickling  of  waters ;  when  the  slow-sailing  mist  has 
left  it,  and  all  its  trees  are  blasted  with  winds.  He 
spoke  to  the  dying  hero  about  the  narrow  house. 
"  Whether  shall  thy  gray  stones  rise  in  Ullin,  or  in 
Moma's  woody  land ;  where  the  sun  looks,  in  secret, 
on  the  blue  streams  of  Dalrutho  ?  There  are  the  steps 
of  thy  daughter,  blue-eyed  Dardu-lena  !" 

"  Rememberest  thou  her,"  said  Foldath,  "  because 
no  son  is  mine  ;  no  youth  to  roll  the  battle  before  him, 
in  revenge  of  me  1  Malthos,  I  am  revenged.  I  was 
not  peaceful  in  the  field.  Raise  the  tombs  of  those  I 
have  slain,  around  my  narrow  house.  Often  shall  I 
forsake  the  blast,  to  rejoice  above  their  graves  ;  when 
I  behold  them  spread  around,  with  their  long-whistling 
grass." 

*  Fingal  and  Cathmor. 
38* 


450  THE    POEMS    OF    OSSIAN. 

His  soul  rushed  to  the  vale  of  Moma,  to  Dardu-lena'a 
dreams,  where  she  slept,  by  Dalrutho's  stream,  return, 
ing  from  the  chase  of  the  hinds.  Her  bow  is  near  the 
maid,  unstrung.  The  breezes  fold  her  long  hair  on  her 
breasts.  Clothed  in  the  beauty  of  youth,  the  love  of 
heroes  lay.  Dark  bending,  from  the  skirts  of  the 
wood,  her  wounded  father  seemed  to  come.  He  ap- 
peared, at  times,  then  hid  himself  in  mist.  Bursting 
into  tears  she  arose.  She  knew  that  the  chief  was  low. 
To  her  came  a  beam  from  his  soul,  when  folded  in  its 
storms.  Thou  wert  the  last  of  his  race,  O  blue-eyed 
Dardu-lena. 

Wide  spreading  over  echoing  Lubar,  the  flight  of 
Bolga  is  rolled  along.  Fillan  hangs  forward  on  their 
steps.  He  strews,  with  dead,  the  heath.  Fingal  re- 
joices over  his  son.  Blue-shielded  Cathmor  rose. 

Son  of  Alpin,  bring  the  harp.  Give  Fillan's  praise 
to  the  wind.  Raise  high  his  praise  in  mine  ear,  while 
yet  he  shines  in  war. 

"  Leave,  blue-eyed  Clatho,  leave  thy  hall !  Behold 
that  early  beam  of  thine !  The  host  is  withered  in  its 
course.  No  further  look,  it  is  dark.  Light  trembling 
from  the  harp,  strike,  virgins,  strike  the  sound.  No 
hunter  he  descends  from  the  dewy  haunt  of  the  bound- 
ing roe.  He  bends  not  his  bow  on  the  wind;  nor 
sends  his  gray  arrow  abroad. 

"  Deep  folded  in  red  war !  See  battle  roll  against 
his  side.  Striding  amid  the  ridgy  strife,  he  pours  the 
death  of  thousands  forth.  Fillan  is  like  a  spirit  of 
heaven,  that  descends  from  the  skirt  of  winds.  The 
troubled  ocean  feels  his  steps,  as  he  strides  from  wave 
to  wave.  His  path  kindles  behind  him.  Islands  shake 
their  heads  on  the  heaving  seas !  Leave,  blue-eyed 
Cla.ho,  leave  thy  hall !" 


BOOK  VI. 

ARGUMENT. 

Tins  book  opens  with  a  speech  of  Fingal,  who  sees  Cathmor  de- 
scending to  the  assistance  of  his  flying  army.  The  king  de- 
spatches Ossian  to  the  relief  of  Fillan.  He  himself  retires  behind 
the  rock  of  Cormnl,  to  avoid  the  sight  of  the  engagement  be- 
tween his  son  and  Cathmor.  Ossian  advances.  Trie  descent  of 
Cathmor  described.  He  rallies  the  army,  renews  the  battle,  and, 
before  Ossian  could  arrive,  engages  Fillan  himself.  Upon  the 
approach  of  Ossian,  the  combat  between  the  two  heroes  ceases. 
Ossian  and  Cathmor  prepare  to  fight,  but  night  coming  on  pre- 
vents them.  Ossian  returns  to  the  place  where  Cathmor  and 
Fillan  fought.  He  finds  Fillan  mortally  wounded,  and  leaning 
against  a  rock.  Their  discourse.  Fillan  dies,  his  body  is  laid, 
by  Ossian,  in  a  neighboring  cave.  The  Caledonian  army  return 
to  Fingal.  He  questions  them  about  his  son,  and  understanding 
that  he  was  killed,  retires,  in  silence,  to  the  rock  of  Cormul 
Upon  the  retreat  of  the  army  of  Fingal,  the  Fir-bolg  advance. 
Cathmor  finds  Bran,  one  of  the  dogs  of  Fingal,  lying  on  the 
shield  of  Fillan,  before  the  entrance  of  the  cave,  where  the  body 
of  that  hero  lay.  His  reflection  thereupon.  He  returns,  in  a 
melancholy  inood,  to  his  army.  Malthos  endeavors  to  comfort 
him,  by  the  example  of  his  father,  Borbar-duthul.  Cathmor  re- 
tires to  rest.  The  song  of  Sul-malla  concludes  the  book,  which 
ends  about  the  middle  of  the  third  night  from  the  opening  of  the 
poem. 

"  CAT]  MOR  rises  on  his  hill !  Shall  Fingal  take  the 
sword  of  Luna  ?  But  what  shall  become  of  thy  fame, 
son  of  white-bosomed  Clatho  ?  Turn  not  thine  eyes 
from  Fingal,  fair  daughter  of  Inis-tore.  I  shall  not 
quench  thy  early  beam.  It  shines  along  my  soul. 
Rise,  wood-skirted  Mora,  rise  between  the  war  and 
me  !  Why  should  Fingal  behold  the  strife,  lest  his 
dark-haired  warrior  should  fall  ?  Amidst  the  song,  O 
Carril,  pour  the  sound  of  the  trembling  harp  !  Here 
are  the  voices  of  rocks  !  and  there  the  bright  tumbling 
of  waters.  Father  of  Oscar  !  lift  the  spear !  defend 
the  young  in  arms.  Conceal  thy  steps  from  Fillan. 


452  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSUN. 

He  must  not  know  that  I  doubt  his  steel.  No  cloud  of 
mine  shall  rise,  my  son,  upon  thy  soul  of  fire  !" 

He  sunk  behind  his  rock,  amid  the  sound  of  Carril'a 
song.  Brightening  in  my  growing  soul,  I  took  the 
spear  of  Temora.  I  saw,  along  Moi-lena,  the  wild 
tumbling  of  battle  ;  the  strife  of  death,  in  gleaming 
rows,  disjointed  and  broken  round.  Fillan  is  a  beam 
of  fire.  From  wing  to  wing  is  his  wasteful  course. 
The  ridges  of  war  melt  before  him.  They  are  rolled, 
in  smoke,  from  the  fields  ! 

Now  is  the  coming  forth  of  Cathmor,  in  the  armor 
of  kings  !  Dark  waves  the  eagle's  wing,  above  his 
helmet  of  fire.  Unconcerned  are  his  steps,  as  if  they 
were  to  the  chase  of  Erin.  He  raises,  at  times,  his 
terrible  voice.  Erin,  abashed,  gathers  round.  Their 
souls  return  back,  like  a  stream.  They  wonder  at  the 
steps  of  their  fear.  He  rose,  like  the  beam  of  the 
morning,  on  a  haunted  heath:  the  traveller  looks  back, 
with  bending  eye,  on  the  field  of  dreadful  forms  !  Sud- 
den from  the  rock  of  Moi-lena,  are  Sul-malla's  trem- 
bling steps.  An  oak  takes  the  spear  from  her  hand. 
Half  bent  she  looses  the  lance.  But  then  are  her  eyes 
on  the  king,  from  amid  her  wandering  locks !  No 
friendly  strife  is  before  thee  !  No  light  contending  of 
bows,  as  when  the  youth  of  Inis-huna  come  forth  be- 
neath the  eye  of  Conmor  ! 

As  the  rock  of  Runo,  which  takes  the  passing  clouds 
as  they  fly,  seems  growing,  in  gathered  darkness,  over 
the  streamy  heath  ;  so  seems  the  chief  of  Atha  taller, 
as  gather  his  people  around.  As  different  blasts  fly 
over  the  sea,  each  behind  its  dark-blue  wave  ;  so 
Catnmur;s  words,  on  every  side,  pour  his  warriors 
forth.  Nor  silent  on  his  hill  is  Fillan.  He  mixes  his 
words  with  his  echoing  shield.  An  eagle  he  stemed, 
with  sounding  wings,  calling  the  wind  to  his  rock,  when 


-IEMORA.  453 

he  sees  the  coming  forth  of  the  roes,  on  Lutha's  rushy 
field! 

Now  they  bend  forward  in  battle.  Death's  hundred 
voices  arise.  The  kings,  on  either  side,  were  like  fires 
on  the  souls  of  the  host.  Ossian  bounded  along.  High 
rocks  and  trees  rush  tall  between  the  war  and  me.  But 
I  hear  the  noise  of  steel,  between  my  clanging  arms. 
Rising,  gleaming  on  the  hill,  I  behold  the  backward 
steps  of  hosts  :  their  backward  steps  on  either  side,  and 
wildly-looking  eyes.  The  chiefs  were  met  in  dreadful 
fight !  The  two  blue-shielded  kings !  Tall  and  dark, 
through  gleams  of  steel,  are  seen  the  striving  heroes ! 
I  rush.  My  fears  for  Fillan  fly,  burning,  across  my 
soul ! 

I  come.  Nor  Cathmor  flies ;  nor  yet  comes  on  ; 
he  sidelong  stalks  along.  An  icy  rock,  cold,  tall,  he 
seems.  I  call  forth  all  my  steel.  Silent  awhile  we 
stride,  on  either  side  of  a  rushing  stream :  then,  sud- 
den turning,  all  at  once,  we  raise  our  pointed  spears. 
We  raise  our  spears,  but  night  comes  down.  It  is 
dark  and  silent  round ;  but  where  the  distant  steps  of 
hosts  are  sounding  over  the  heath. 

I  come  to  the  place  where  Fillan  fought.  Nor  voice 
nor  sound  is  there.  A  broken  helmet  lies  on  earth,  a 
buckler  cleft  in  twain.  Where,  Fillan,  where  art  thou, 
young  chief  of  echoing  Morven  ?  He  hears  me,  lean- 
ing  on  a  rock,  which  bends  its  gray  head  over  the 
stream.  He  hears ;  but  sullen,  dark  he  stands.  At 
length  I  saw  the  hero. 

"Why  standest  thou,  robed  in  darkness,  son  of 
woody  Selma  !  Bright  is  thy  path,  my  brother,  in  this 
dark-brown  field  !  Long  has  been  thy  strife  in  battle  ! 
Now  the  horn  of  Fingal  is  heard.  Ascend  to  the  cloud 
of  thy  father,  to  his  hill  of  feasts.  In  the  evening  mists 
he  sits,  and  hears  the  sound  of  Carril's  harp.  Carry 
joy  to  the  aged,  young  breaker  of  the  shields !" 


454  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

"  Can  the  vanquished  carry  joy  ?  Ossian,  no  shield 
is  mine  !  It  lies  broken  on  the  field.  The  eagle-wing 
of  my  helmet  is  torn.  It  is  when  foes  fly  before 
them,  that  fathers  delight  in  their  sons.  But  their 
sighs  burst  forth,  in  secret,  when  their  young  warriors 
yield.  No  :  Fillan  shall  not  behold  the  king  !  Why 
should  the  hero  mourn  ?" 

"  Son  of  blue-eyed  Clatho  !  O  Fillan,  awake  not 
my  soul !  Wert  thou  not  a  burning  fire  before  him  ? 
Shall  he  not  rejoice  ?  Such  fame  belongs  not  to  Ossian  ; 
yet  is  the  king  stili  a  sun  to  me.  He  looks  on  my 
steps  with  joy.  Shadows  never  rise  on  his  face.  As- 
cend, O  Fillan,  to  Mora !  His  feast  is  spread  in  the 
folds  of  mist." 

"  Ossian  !  give  me  that  broken  shield  :  those  feath- 
ers that  are  rolled  in  the  wind.  Place  them  near  to 
Fillan,  that  less  of  his  fame  may  fall.  Ossian,  I  begin 
to  fail.  Lay  me  in  that  hollow  rock.  Raise  no  stone 
above,  lest  one  should  ask  about  my  fame.  I  am  fallen 
in  the  first  of  my  fields,  fallen  without  renown.  Let 
thy  voice  alone  send  joy  to  my  flying  soul.  Why 
should  the  bard  know  where  dwells  the  lost  beam  of 
Clatho  ?" 

"  Is  thy  spirit  on  the  eddying  winds,  O  Fillan,  young 
breaker  of  shields.  Joy  pursue  my  hero,  through  his 
folded  clouds.  The  forms  of  thy  fathers,  O  Fillan, 
bend  to  receive  their  son  !  I  behold  the  spreading  of 
their  fire  on  Mora  :  the  blue-rolling  of  their  wreaths. 
Joy  meet  thee,  my  brother  !  But  we  are  dark  and  sad  ! 
I  behold  the  foe  round  the  aged.  I  behold  the  wasting 
away  of  his  fame.  Thou  art  left  alone  in  the  field,  O 
gray-haired  king  of  Selma  !" 

I  laid  him  in  the  hollow  rock,  at  the  roar  of  the 
nightly  stream.  One  red  star  /ooked  in  on  the  hero. 
Winds  lift,  at  times,  his  locks.  I  listen.  No  sound  is 
aeard.  The  warrior  slept !  A.S  lightning  on  a  cloud, 


TEMORA.  455 

a  '.nought  came  rushing  along  my  soul.  My  eyes  roll 
in  fire  :  my  stride  was  in  the  clang  of  steel.  "  I  will 
find  thee,  king  of  Erin !  in  the  gathering  of  thy  thou- 
sands find  thee.  Why  should  that  cloud  escape,  that 
quenched  our  early  beam  ?  Kindle  your  meteors  on 
your  hills,  my  fathers.  Light  my  daring  steps.  I  will 

consume  in  wrath.* But  should  not  I  return  ? 

The  king  is  without  a  son,  gray-haired  among  his  foes  ! 
His  arm  is  not  as  in  the  days  of  old.  His  fame  grows 
dim  in  Erin.  Let  me  not  behold  him,  laid  low  in  his 
latter  field. — But  can  I  return  to  the  king  ?  Will  he 
not  ask  about  his  son  ?  "  Thou  oughtest  to  defend 
young  Fillan." — Ossian  will  meet  the  foe  !  Green 
Erin,  thy  sounding  tread  is  pleasant  to  my  ear.  I  rush 
on  thy  ridgy  host,  to  shun  the  eyes  of  Fingal.  I  hear 
the  voice  of  the  king,  on  Mora's  misty  top  !  He  calls 
his  two  sons  !  I  come,  my  father,  in  my  grief.  1 
come  like  an  eagle,  which  the  flame  of  night  met  in 
the  desert,  and  spoiled  of  half  his  wings  ! 

Distant,  round  the  king,  on  Mora,  the  broken  ridges 
of  Morven  are  rolled.  They  turned  their  eyes  :  each 
darkly  bends,  on  his  own  ashen  spear.  Silent  stood 
the  king  in  the  midst.  Thought  on  thought  rolled  over 
his  soul :  as  waves  on  a  secret  mountain  lake,  each 
with  its  back  of  foam.  He  looked  ;  no  son  appeared, 
with  his  long-beaming  spear.  The  sighs  rose,  crowd- 
ing, from  his  soul  ;  but  ho  concealed  his  grief.  At 
length  I  stood  beneath  an  oak.  No  voice  of  mine  was 

*  Here  the  sentence  is  designedly  left  unfinished.  The  sense  is, 
that  he  was  resolved,  like  a  destroying  fire,  to  consume  Cathmor, 
wL  3  had  killed  his  brother.  In  the  midst  of  this  resolution,  the 
eituation  of  Fingal  suggests  itself  to  him  in  a  very  strong  light.  He 
resolves  to  return  to  assist  the  kins  in  prosecuting  the  war.  But 
then  his  shame  for  not  defending  his  brother  recurs  to  him.  He  is 
determined  again  to  go  and  find  out  Cathmor.  We  may  consider 
him  as  in  the  act  of  advancing  towards  the  enemy,  when  the  horn 
of  Fingal  sounded  on  Mora,  and  called  back  ma  people  to  his 
presence. 


456  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AH. 

heard.  What  could  I  say  to  Fingal  in  this  hour  of 
wo  ?  His  words  rose,  at  length,  in  the  midst :  the 
people  shrunk  backward  as  he  spoke. 

"  Where  is  the  son  of  Selma  ;  he  who  led  in  war  ? 
I  behold  not  his  steps,  among  my  people,  returning 
from  the  field.  Fell  the  young  bounding  roe,  who  was 
so  stately  on  my  hills  ?  He  fe'l !  for  ye  are  silent. 
The  shield  of  war  is  cleft  in  twain.  Let  his  armor 
be  near  to  Fingal ;  and  the  sword  of  dark-brown  Luno. 
I  am  waked  on  my  hills ;  with  morning  1  descend  to 
war!" 

High  on  Cormul's  rock,  an  oak  is  flaming  to  the 
wind.  The  gray  skirts  of  mist  are  rolled  around ; 
thither  strode  the  king  in  his  wrath.  Distant  from  the 
host  he  always  lay,  when  battle  burnt  within  his  soul. 
On  two  spears  hung  his  shield  on  high  ;  the  gleaming 
sign  of  death !  that  shield,  which  he  was  wont  to  strike, 
by  night,  before  he  rushed  to  war.  It  was  then  his 
warriors  knew  when  the  king  was  to  lead  in  strife  ; 
for  never  was  his  buckler  heard,  till  the  wrath  of  Fin- 
gal arose.  Unequal  were  his  steps  on  high,  as  he 
shone  on  the  beam  of  the  oak ;  he  was  dreadful  as  the 
form  of  the  spirit  of  night,  when  he  clothes,  on  hills, 
his  wild  gestures  with  mist,  and,  issuing  forth,  on  the 
troubled  ocean,  mounts  the  car  of  winds. 

Nor  settled,  from  the  storm,  is  Erin's  sea  of  war  ! 
they  glitter,  beneath  the  moon,  and,  low  humming,  still 
roll  on  the  field.  Alone  are  the  steps  of  Cathmor,  be- 
fore them  on  the  heath  :  he  hangs  forward,  with  all 
his  arms,  on  Morven's  flying  host.  Now  had  he  come 
to  the  mossy  cave,  where  Fillan  lay  in  night.  One 
tree  was  bent  above  the  stream,  which  glittered  over 
the  rock.  There  shone  to  the  moon  the  broken  shield 
of  Clatho's  son  ;  and  near  it,  on  grass,  lay  hairy-footed 
Bran.  He  had  missed  the  chief  on  Mora,  and  searched 
him  along  the  wind.  He  thought  that  the  blue-eyed 


TEMORA.  451 

hunter  slept ;  he  lay  upon  his  shield.  No  blast  came 
over  the  heath  unknown  to  bounding  Bran. 

Cathmor  saw  the  white-breasted  dog ;  he  saw  the 
broken  shieW.  Darkness  is  blown  back  on  his  soui ; 
AG  remembers  the  falling  away  of  the  people.  They 
came,  a  stream ;  are  rolled  away  ;  another  race  suc- 
ceeds. But  some  mark  the  fields,  as  they  pass,  with 
their  own  mighty  names.  The  heath,  through  dark- 
orown  years,  is  theirs ;  some  blue  stream  winds  to 
iheir  fame.  Of  these  be  the  chief  of  Atha,  when  he 
lays  him  down  on  earth.  Often  may  the  voice  of  future 
times  meet  Cathmor  in  the  air  ;  when  he  strides  from 
wind  to  wind,  or  folds  himself  in  the  wing  of  a  storm. 

Green  Erin  gathered  round  the  king  to  hear  the 
roice  of  his  power.  Their  joyful  faces  bend  unequal, 
forward,  in  the  light  of  the  oak.  They  who  were  ter- 
rible, were  removed  ;  Lubar  winds  again  in  their  host. 
Cathmor  was  that  beam  from  heaven,  which  shone 
when  his  people  were  dark.  He  was  honored  in  the 
midst.  Their  souls  arose  with  ardor  around.  The 
king  alone  no  gladness  showed  j  no  stranger  he  to 
war  ! 

"  Why  is  the  king  so  sad  ?"  said  Malthos,  eagle- 
eyed.  "  Remains  there  a  foe  at  Lubar  ?  Lives  there 
among  them  who  can  lift  the  spear  ?  Not  so  peaceful 
was  thy  father,  Borbar-duthul,  king  of  spears.  His 
rage  was  a  fire  that  always  burned  :  his  joy  over  fallen 
foes  was  great.  Three  days  feasted  the  gray-haired 
hero,  when  he  heard  that  Calmar  fell  :  Calmar  who 
aided  the  race  of  Ullin,  from  Lara  of  the  streams. 
Often  did  he  feel,  with  his  hands,  the  steel  which  they 
said  had  pierced  his  foe.  He  felt  it  with  his  hands, 
for  Borbar-duthul 's  eyes  had  failed.  Yet  was  the  king 
a  sun  to  his  friends ;  a  gale  to  lift  their  branches 
round.  Joy  was  around  him  in  his  halls  :  he  loved 
the  sons  of  Bolga.  His  name  remains  in  Atha,  like 
39 


458  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AN. 

the  awful  memory  of  ghosts  whose  presence  was  ter- 
rible ;  but  they  blew  the  storm  away.  Now  let  the 
voices  of  Erin*  raise  the  soul  of  the  king ;  he  that 
shone  when  war  was  dark,  and  laid  the  mighty  low. 
Fonar,  from  that  gray-browed  rock  pour  the  tale 
of  other  times  :  pour  it  on  wide-skirted  Erin,  as  it  set 
ties  round. 

"  To  me,"  said  Cathmor,  "  no  song  shall  rise  ;  nor 
Fonar  sit  on  the  rock  of  Lubar.  The  mighty  there 
are  laid  low.  Disturb  not  their  rushing  ghosts.  Far, 
Malthos,  far  remove  the  sound  of  Erin's  song.  I  re- 
joice not  over  the  foe,  when  he  ceases  to  lift  the  spear. 
With  morning  we  pour  our  strength  abroad.  Fingal 
is  wakened  on  his  echoing  hill." 

Like  waves,  blown  back  by  sudden  winds,  Erin  re- 
tired, at  the  voice  of  the  king.  Deep,  rolled  into  the 
field  of  night,  they  spread  their  humming  tribes.  Be- 
neath his  own  tree,  at  intervals,  each  bard  sat  down 
with  his  harp.  They  raised  the  song,  and  touched  the 
string  :  each  to  the  chief  he  loved.  Before  a  burning 
oak  Sul-malla  touched,  at  times,  the  harp.  She  touch- 
ed the  harp,  and  heard,  between,  the  breezes  in  her 
hair.  In  darkness  near  lay  the  king  of  Atha,  beneath 
an  aged  tree.  The  beam  of  the  oak  was  turned  from 
him ;  he  saw  the  maid,  but  was  not  seen.  His  soul 
poured  forth,  in  secret,  when  he  beheld  her  fearful  eye. 
<:But  battle  is  before  thee,  son  of  Borbar-duthul." 

Amidst  the  harp,  at  intervals,- she  listened  whether 
the  warrior  slept.  Her  soul  was  up  ;  she  longed,  in 
secret,  to  pour  her  own  sad  song.  The  field  is  silent. 
On  their  wings  the  blasts  of  night  retire.  The  bards 
had  ceased  ;  and  meteors  came,  red-winding  with  their 
ghosts.  The  sky  grew  dark :  the  forms  of  the  dead 
were  blended  with  the  clouds.  But  heedless  bends  the 

•  A  poetical  expression  for  the  bards  of  Ireland. 


TEMORA.  459 

daughter  of  Conmor,  over  the  decaying  flame.  Thou 
wert  alone  in  her  soul,  car-borne  chief  of  Atha.  She 
raised  the  voice  of  the  song,  and  touched  the  harp 
between. 

"  Clun-galo*  came  ;  she  missed  the  maid.  Where 
art  thou,  beam  of  light  ?  Hunters  from  the  mossy  rock, 
saw  ye  the  blue-eyed  fair  ?  Are  her  steps  on  grassy 
Lumon  ;  near  the  bed  of  roes  ?  Ah,  me  !  I  behold  her 
bow  in  the  hall.  Where  art  thou,  beam  of  light  ? 

"  Cease,  love  of  Conmor,  cease  !  I  hear  thee  not  on 
the  ridgy  heath.  My  eye  is  turned  to  the  king,  whose 
path  is  terrible  in  war.  He  for  whom  my  soul  is  up, 
in  the  season  of  my  rest.  Deep-bosomed  in  war  he 
stands  ;  he  beholds  me  not  from  his  cloud.  Why,  sun 
of  Sul-malla,  dost  thou  not  look  forth  ?  I  dwell  in 
darkness  here  :  wide  over  me  flies  the  shadowy  mist. 
Filled  with  dew  are  my  locks :  look  thou  from  thy 
cloud,  O  sun  of  Sul-malla's  soul !" 

*  Clun-galo,  the  wife  of  Conmor,  king  of  Inis-huna,  and  the 
mother  ol  Sul-malla.  She  is  here  represented  as  missing  her 
daughter,  after  she  had  fled  with  Cathmor. 


BOOK  VII. 

ARGUMENT. 

This  book  begins  aoout  the  middle  of  the  third  night  from  the 
opening  of  the  poem.  The  poet  describes  a  kind  of  mist,  which 
rose  by  night  fiom  the  Lake  of  Lego,  and  was  the  usual  residence 
of  the  souls  of  the  dead,  during  the  interval  between  their  de- 
cease and  the  funeral  song.  The  appearance  of  the  ghost  of 
Fillan  above  the  cave  where  his  body  lay.  His  voice  comes  to 
Fingal  on  the  rock  of  Cormul.  The  king  strikes  the  shield  of 
Trenmor,  which  was  an  infallible  sign  of  his  appearing  in  arms 
himself.  The  extraordinary  effect  of  the  sound  of  the  shield. 
Sul-malla,  starting  from  sleep,  awakes  Cathmor.  Their  affecting 
discourse.  She  insists  with  him  to  sue  for  peace ;  he  resolves 
to  continue  the  war.  He  directs  her  to  retire  to  the  neighboring 
valley  of  Lona,  which  was  the  residence  of  an  old  Druid,  untfl 
the  battle  of  the  next  daj  should  be  over.  He  awakes  his  army 
with  the  sound  of  his  shield.  The  shield  described.  Fonar,  the 
bard,  at  the  desire  of  Cathmor,  relates  the  first  settlement  of  the 
Fir-bole  in  Ireland,  under  their  leader  Larthon.  Morning  comes. 
Sul-malla  retires  to  the  valley  of  Lona.  A  lyric  song  concludes 
the  book. 

FROM  the  wood-skirted  waters  of  Lego  ascend,  at 
times,  gray-bosomed  mists ;  when  the  gates  of  the  west 
are  closed,  on  the  sun's  eagle  eye.  Wide,  over  Lara's 
stream,  is  poured  the  vapor  dark  and  deep :  the  moon, 
like  a  dim  shield,  lay  swimming  through  its  folds. 
With  this,  clothe  the  spirits  of  old  their  sudden  gestures 
on  the  wind,  when  they  stride,  from  blast  to  blast,  along 
the  dusky  night.  Often,  blended  with  the  gale,  to 
some  warrior's  grave,  they  roll  the  mist  a  gray  dwell- 
ing to  his  ghost,  until  the  songs  arise. 

A  sound  came  from  the  desert ;  it  was  Conar,  king 
of  Inis-fail.  He  poured  his  mist  on  the  grave  of  Fillan, 
at  blue-winding  Lubar.  Dark  and  mournful  sat  the 
ghost,  in  his  gray  ridge  of  smoke.  The  blast,  at  times, 
rolled  him  together ;  but  the  form  returned  again.  It 


TEMORA.  461 

returned  with  bending  eyes,  and  dark  winding  of  locks 
of  mist. 

It  was  dark.  The  sleeping  host  were  still  in  the 
skirts  of  night.  The  flame  decayed,  on  the  hill  of 
Fingal ;  the  king  lay  lonely  on  his  shield.  His  eyes 
were  half  clothed  in  sleep :  the  voice  of  Fillan  came. 
"  Sleeps  the  husband  of  Clatho  ?  Dwells  the  father 
of  the  fallen  in  rest  ?  Am  I  forgot  in  the  folds  of  dark- 
ness ;  lonely  in  the  season  of  night  ?" 

"  Why  dost  thou  mix,"  said  the  king,  "  with  the 
dreams  of  my  father  ?  Can  I  forget  thee,  my  son,  or 
thy  path  of  fire  in  the  field  ?  Not  such  come  the  deeds 
of  the  valiant  on  the  soul  of  Fingal.  They  are  not 
there  a  beam  of  lightning,  which  is  seen  and  is  then  no 
more.  I  remember  thee,  O  Fillan  !  and  my  wrath  be- 
gins to  rise." 

The  king  took  his  deathful  spear,  and  struck  the 
deeply-sounding  shield :  his  shield,  that  hung  high  in 
night,  the  dismal  sign  of  war.  Ghosts  fled  on  every 
side,  and  rolled  their  gathered  forms  on  the  wind. 
Thrice  from  the  winding  vales  arose  the  voice  of  deaths. 
The  harps  of  the  bards,  untouched,  sound  mournful 
over  the  hill. 

He  struck  again  the  shield ;  battles  rose  in  the 
dreams  of  his  host.  The  wide-tumbling  strife  is  gleam- 
ing over  their  souls.  Blue-shielded  kings  descended  to 
war.  Backward-loo)  ing  armies  fly ;  and  mighty  deeds 
are  half  hid  in  the  b  ight  gleams  of  steel. 

But  when  the  thi.d  sound  arose,  deer  started  from 
the  clefts  of  their  rocks.  The  screams  of  fowl  are 
heard  in  the  desert,  as  each  flew  frightened  on  his  blast. 
The  sons  of  Selma  half  rose  and  half  assumed  their 
spears.  But  silence  rolled  back  on  the  host :  they 
knew  the  shield  of  the  king.  Sleep  returned  to  their 
eyes ;  the  field  was  dark  and  still. 

No  sleep  was  thine  in  darkness,  blue-eyed  daughter 
39* 


462  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

of  Conmor !  Sul-malla  heard  the  dreadful  shield,  and 
rose,  amid  the  night.  Her  steps  are  towards  the  king 
of  Atha.  "Can  danger  shake  his  daring  soul?"  In 
doubt,  she  stands  with  bending  eyes.  Heaven  bums 
with  all  its  stars. 

Again  the  shield  resounds  !  She  rushed.  She  stopt. 
Her  voice  half  rose.  It  failed.  She  saw  him,  amidst 
his  arms,  that  gleamed  to  heaven's  fire.  She  saw  him 
dim  in  his  locks,  that  rose  to  nightly  wind.  Away,  for 
fear,  she  turned  her  steps.  "  Why  should  the  king  of 
Erin  awake  ?  Thou  art  not  a  dream  to  his  rust, 
daughter  of  Inis-huna." 

More  dreadful  rings  the  shield.  Sul-malla  starts. 
Her  helmet  falls.  Loud  echoes  Lubar's  rock,  as  over 
it  rolls  the  steel.  Bursting  from  the  dreams  of  night, 
Cathmor  half  rose  beneath  his  tree.  He  saw  the  form 
of  the  maid  above  him,  on  the  rock.  A  red  star,  with 
twinkling  beams,  looked  through  her  floating  hair. 

"Who  comes  through  night  to  Cathmor  in  the  sea- 
son  of  his  dreams  ?  Bring'st  thou  aught  of  war  ?  Who 
art  thou,  son  of  night  ?  Stand'st  thou  before  me,  a  form 
of  the  times  of  old  ?  a  voice  from  the  fold  of  a  cloud, 
to  warn  me  of  the  danger  of  Erin  ?" 

"  Nor  lonely  scout  am  I,  nor  voice  from  folded  cloud," 
she  said,  "  but  I  warn  thee  of  the  danger  of  Erin.  Dost 
thou  hear  that  sound  ?  It  is  not  the  feeble,  king  of  Atha, 
that  rolls  his  signs  on  night." 

"Let  the  warrior  roll  his  signs,"  he  replied,  "to 
Cathmor  they  are  the  sounds  ol  harps.  My  joy  is 
great,  voice  of  night,  and  burns  over  all  my  thoughts. 
This  is  the  music  of  kings,  on  lonely  hills,  by  night ; 
when  they  light  their  daring  souls,  the  sons  of  mighty 
deeds !  The  feeble  dwell  alone,  in  the  valley  of  the 
breeze  ;  where  mists  lift  their  morning  skirts,  from  the 
blue-winding  streams."  * 

"  Not  feeble,  king  of  men,  were  they,  the  fathers  of 


TEMORA.  463 

my  race.  They  dwelt  in  the  folds  of  battle,  in  their 
distant  lands.  Yet  delights  not  my  soul  in  the  signs 
of  death !  He,  who  never  yields,  conies  forth :  O  send 
the  bard  of  peace !" 

Like  a  dropping  rock  in  the  desert,  stood  Cathmor  in 
his  tears.  Her  voice  came,  a  breeze  on  his  soul,  and 
waked  the  memory  of  her  land ;  where  she  dwelt  by 
her  peaceful  streams,  before  he  came  to  the  war  of 
Conmor. 

"  Daughter  of  strangers,"  he  said,  (she  trembling 
turned  away,)  "  long  have  I  marked  thee  in  thy  steel, 
young  pine  of  Inis-huna.  But  my  soul,  I  said,  is  folded 
in  a  storm.  Why  should  that  beam  arise,  till  my  steps 
return  in  peace  ?  Have  I  been  pale  in  thy  presence, 
as  thou  bid'st  me  to  fear  the  king  ?  The  time  of  danger, 
O  maid,  is  the  season  of  my  soul ;  for  then  it  swells  a 
mighty  stream,  and  rolls  me  on  the  foe. 

"  Beneath  the  moss-covered  rock  of  Lona,  near  his 
own  loud  stream ;  gray  in  his  locks  of  age,  dwells 
Clonmal  king  of  harps.  Above  him  is  his  echoing  tree, 
and  the  dun  bounding  of  roes.  The  noise  of  our  strife 
reaches  his  ear,  as  he  bends  in  the  thoughts  of  years. 
There  let  thy  rest  be,  Sul-malla,  until  our  battle  cease. 
Until  I  return,  in  my  arms,  from  the  skirts  of  the  even- 
ing mist,  that  rises  on  Lona,  round  the  dwelling  of  my 
love." 

A  light  fell  on  the  soul  of  the  maid  :  it  rose  kindled 
before  the  king.  She  turned  her  face  to  Cathmor,  from 
amidst  her  waving  locks.  "  Sooner  shall  the  eagle  of 
heaven  be  torn  from  the  stream  of  his  roaring  wind, 
when  he  sees  the  dun  prey  before  him,  the  young  sons 
of  the  bounding  roe,  than  thou,  O  Cathmor,  be  turned 
from  the  strife  of  renown.  Soon  may  I  see  thee,  war- 
rior,  from  the  skirts  of  the  evening  mist,  when  it  is 
roiled  around  me,  on  Lona  of  the  streams.  While  yet 
thou  art  distant  far,  strike,  Cathmor,  strike  the  shield, 


464  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

that  joy  may  return  to  my  darkened  soul,  as  I  lean  on 
the  mossy  rock.  But  if  thou  shouldst  fall,  I  am  in  the 
land  of  strangers ;  O  send  thy  voice  from  thy  cloud,  to 
the  midst  of  Inis-huna  !" 

"  Young  branch  of  green-headed  Lumon,  why  Jost 
thou  shake  in  the  storm  ?  Often  has  Cathmor  returned, 
from  darkly  rolling  wars.  The  darts  of  death  are  but 
hail  to  me ;  they  have  often  rattled  along  my  shield. 
1  have  risen  brightened  from  battle,  like  a  meteor  from 
a  stormy  cloud.  Return  not,  fair  beam,  from  thy  vale, 
when  the  roar  of  battle  grows.  Then  might  the  foe 
escape,  as  from  my  fathers  of  old. 

"  They  told  to  Son-mor,  of  Clunar,  who  was  slain 
by  Cormac  in  fight.  Three  days  darkened  Son-mor, 
over  his  brother's  fall.  His  spouse  beheld  the  silent 
king  and  foresaw  his  steps  in  war.  She  prepared  the 
bow,  in  secret,  to  attend  her  blue-shielded  hero.  To 
her  dwelt  darkness  at  Atha,  when  he  was  not  there. 
From  their  hundred  streams,  by  night,  poured  down  the 
sons  of  Alnecma.  They  had  heard  the  shield  of  the 
king,  and  their  rage  arose.  In  clanging  arms,  they 
moved  along  towards  Ullin  of  the  groves.  Son-mor 
struck  his  shield,  at  times  the  leader  of  the  war. 

"  Far  behind  followed  Sul-allin,  over  the  streamy 
hills.  She  was  a  light  on  the  mountain,  when  they 
crossed  the  vale  below.  Her  steps  were  stately  on  the 
vale,  when  they  rose  on  the  mossy  hill.  She  feared  to 
approach  the  king,  who  left  her  in  echoing  Atha.  But 
when  the  roar  of  battle  rose  ;  when  host  was  rolled  on 
host,  when  Son-mor  burnt,  like  the  fire  of  heaven  in 
clouds,  with  her  spreading  hair  came  Sul-allin,  for  she 
trembled  for  her  king.  He  stopt  the  rushing  strife  to 
sa\e  the  love  of  heroes.  The  foe  fled  by  night ;  Clunar 
slept  without  his  blood ;  the  blood  which  ought  to  be 
poured  upon  the  warrior's  tomb. 

"  Nor  rose  the  rage  of  Son-mor,  but  his  days  were 


TEMORA.  466 

silent  and  dark.  Sul-allin  wandered  by  her  gray 
stream,  with  her  tearful  eyes.  Often  did  she  look  on 
the  hero,  when  he  was  folded  in  his  thoughts.  But  she 
shrunk  from  his  eyes,  and  turned  her  lone  steps  away. 
Ba"les  rose,  like  a  tempest,  and  drove  the  mist  from 
his  soul.  He  beheld  with  joy  her  steps  in  the  hall, 
and  the  white  rising  of  her  hands  on  the  harp." 

In  his  arms  strode  the  chief  of  Atha,  to  where  his 
shield  hung,  high,  in  night :  high  on  a  mossy  bough 
over  Lubar's  streamy  roar.  Seven  bosses  rose  on  the 
shield ;  the  seven  voices  of  the  king,  which  his  warriors 
received,  from  the  wind,  and  marked  over  all  the  tribes. 

On  each  boss  is  placed  a  star  of  night :  Canmathon 
with  beams  unshorn  ;  Col-derna  rising  from  a  cloud ; 
U-loicho  robed  in  mist ;  and  the  soft  beam  of  Cathlin 
glittering  on  a  rock.  Smiling,  on  its  own  blue  wave, 
Rel-durath  half  sinks  its  western  light.  The  red  eye 
of  Berthin  looks,  through  a  grove,  on  the  hunter,  as  he 
returns,  by  night,  with  the  spoils  of  the  bounding  roe. 
Wide,  in  the  midst,  rose  the  cloudless  beams  of  Ton- 
thena,  that  star,  which  looked  by  night  on  the  course 
of  the  sea-tossed  Larthon :  Larthon,  the  first  of  Bolga's 
race,  who  travelled  on  the  winds.  White-bosomed 
spread  the  sails  of  the  king,  towards  streamy  Inis-fail ; 
dun  night  was  rolled  before  him,  with  its  skirts  of  mist. 
Unconstant  blew  the  winds,  and  rolled  him  from  wave 
to  wave.  Then  rose  the  fiery-haired  Ton-thena,  and 
smiled  from  her  parted  cloud.  Larthon  blessed  the 
well-known  beam,  as  it  faint  gleamed  on  the  deep. 

Beneath  the  spear  of  Cathmor  rose  that  voice  which 
awakes  the  bards.  They  came,  dark  winding  from 
every  side  :  each  with  the  sound  of  his  harp.  Before 
him  rejoiced  the  king,  as  the  traveller,  in  the  day  of  the 
sun ;  when  he  hears,  far  rolling  around,  the  murmur 
of  mossy  streams :  streams  that  burst  in  the  desert, 
from  the  rock  of  roes. 


466  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

"Why,"  said  Fonar,  "hear  we  the  voice  of  the  king, 
in  the  season  of  his  rest  ?  Were  the  dim  forms  of  thy 
fathers  bending  in  thy  dreams  ?  Perhaps  they  stand  on 
that  cloud,  and  wait  for  Fonar's  song  ;  often  they  come 
to  the  fields  where  their  sons  are  to  lift  the  spear.  Or 
slull  our  voice  arise  for  him  who  lifts  the  spear  no  more  ; 
ht  that  consumed  the  field,  from  Moma  of  the  groves  ?" 

"  Not  forgot  is  that  cloud  in  war,  bard  of  other  times. 
High  shall  his  tomb  rise,  on  Moi-lena,  the  dwelling  of 
renown.  But,  now,  roll  back  my  soul  to  the  times  of 
my  fathers :  to  the  years  when  first  they  rose,  on  Inis- 
huna's  waves.  Nor  alone  pleasant  to  Cathmor  is  the 
remembrance  of  wood-covered  Lumon.  Lumon  of  the 
streams,  the  dwelling  of  white-bosomed  maids." 

"  Lumon*  of  the  streams,  thou  risest  on  Fonar's 
soul !  Thy  sun  is  on  thy  side,  on  the  rocks  of  thy 
bending  trees.  The  dun  roe  is  seen  from  thy  furze  ; 
the  deer  lifts  its  branchy  head ;  for  he  sees,  at  times, 
the  hound  on  the  half-covered  heath.  Slow,  on  the 
vale,  are  the  steps  of  maids  ;  the  white-armed  daughters 
of  the  bow :  they  lift  their  blue  eyes  to  the  hill,  from 
amidst  their  wandering  locks.  Not  there  is  the  stride 
of  Larthon,  chief  of  Inis-huna.  He  mounts  the  wave 
on  his  own  dark  oak,  in  Cluba's  ridgy  bay.  That  oak 
which  he  cut  from  Lumon,  to  bound  along  the  sea. 
The  maids  turn  their  eyes  away,  lest  the  king  should 
be  lowly  laid ;  for  never  had  they  seen  a  ship,  dark 
rider  of  the  wave ! 

"  Now  he  dares  to  call  the  winds,  and  to  mix  with 
the  mist  of  ocean.  Blue  Inis-fail  rose,  in  smoke  ;  but 
dark-skirted  night  came  down.  The  sons  of  Bolga 
feared.  The  fiery-haired  Ton-thena  rose.  Culbin's 
bay  received  the  ship,  in  the  bosom  of  its  echoing 
woods.  There  issued  a  stream  from  Duthuma's  horrid 

*  A  hill,  in  Inis-huna,  near  the  residence  of  Sul-malla. 


TJLMOKA.  46"* 

cave ;  where  spirits  gleamed,  at  times,  with  their  half- 
finished  forms. 

"  Dreams  descended  on  Larthon  :  he  saw  seven  spirits 
of  his  fathers.  He  heard  their  half-formed  words, 
and  dimly  beheld  the  times  to  come.  He  beheld  the 
kings  of  Atha,  the  sons  of  future  days.  They  led  their 
hosts  along  the  field,  like  ridges  of  mist,  which  winds 
pour  in  autumn,  over  Atha  of  the  groves. 

"  Larthon  raised  the  hall  of  Semla,  to  the  music  of 
the  harp.  He  went  forth  to  the  rocs  of  Erin,  to  their 
wonted  streams.  Nor  did  he  forget  green-headed  Lu- 
mon  ;  he  often  bounded  over  his  seas,  to  where  white- 
handed  Flathal  looked  from  the  hill  of  rocs.  Lumon 
of  the  foamy  streams,  thou  risest  on  Fonar's  soul !" 

Mourning  pours  from  the  east.  The  misty  heads  of 
the  mountains  rise.  Valleys  show,  on  every  side,  the 
gray  winding  of  the  streams.  His  host  heard  the 
shield  of  Cathmor  :  at  once  they  rose  around ;  like  a 
crowded  sea,  when  first  it  feels  the  wings  of  the  wind. 
The  waves  know  not  whither  to  roll ;  they  lift  their 
troubled  heads. 

Sad  and  slow  retired  Sul-malla  to  Lona  of  the  streams. 
She  went,  and  often  turned ;  her  blue  eyes  rolled  in 
tears.  But  when  she  came  to  the  rock,  that  darkly 
covered  Lona's  vale,  she  looked,  from  her  bursting 
soul,  on  the  king ;  and  sunk,  at  once,  behind. 

Son  of  Alpin,  strike  the  string.  Is  there  aught  of 
joy  in  the  harp  ?  Pour  it  then  on  the  soul  of  Ossian :  it 
is  folded  in  mist.  I  hear  thee,  O  bard !  in  my  night. 
But  cease  the  lightly-trembling  sound.  The  joy  of 
grief  belongs  to  Ossian,  amidst  his  dark-brown 
jears. 

Green  thorn  of  the  hill  of  ghosts,  that  shakest  thy 
head  to  nightly  winds !  I  hear  no  sound  in  thee ;  is 
there  no  spirit's  windy  skirt  now  rustling  in  thy  leaves  ? 
Often  are  the  steps  of  the  dead,  in  the  dark-eddying 


468  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAH. 

blasts ;  when  the  moon,  a  dun  shield,  from  the  east  ia 
rolled  along  the  sky. 

Ullin,  Carril,  and  Ryno,  voices  of  the  days  of  old ! 
Let  me  hear  you,  while  yet  it  is  dark,  to  please  and 
awake  my  soul.  I  hear  you  not,  ye  sons  of  song ;  in 
what  hall  of  the  clouds  is  your  rest  ?  Do  you  touch  the 
shadowy  harp,  robed  with  morning  mist,  where  the 
rustling  sun  comes  forth  from  his  green-headed  waves  ? 


BOOK  VIH 

ARGUMENT. 

The  fourth  morning,  from  the  opening  01'  the  poem,  comes  on 
Fingal,  still  continuing  in  the  place  to  which  he  had  retired  on 
the  preceding  night,  is  seen,  at  intervals,  through  the  mist  •which 
covered  the  rock  of  Cormul.  The  descent  of  the  king  is  de- 
scribed. He  orders  Gaul,  Dermid,  and  Carril  the  -bard,  to  go  to 
the  valley  of  Cluna,  and  conduct  from  thence  the  Caledonian 
army,  Ferad-artho,  the  son  of  Cairbar,  the  only  person  remain- 
ing of  the  family  of  Conar,  the  first  king  of  Ireland.  The  king 
takes  the  command  of  the  army,  and  prepares  for  battle.  March- 
ing towards  the  enemy,  he  comes  to  the  cave  of  Lubar,  where 
the  body  of  Fillan  lay.  Upon  seeing  his  dog,  Bran,  who  lay  at 
the  entrance  of  the  cave,  his  grief  returns.  Cathmor  arranges  the 
Irish  army  in  order  of  battle.  The  appearance  of  that  hero.  The 
general  conflict  is  described.  The  actions  of  Fingal  and  Cathmor. 
A  storm.  The  total  rout  of  the  Fir-bolg.  The  two  kings  engage, 
in  a  column  of  mist,  on  the  banks  of  Lubar.  Their  attitude  ana 
conference  after  the  combat.  The  death  of  Cathmor.  Fingal  re- 
signs the  spear  of  Trenmor  to  Ossian.  The  ceremonies  observed 
on  that  occasion.  The  spirit  of  Cathmor,  in  the  mean  time,  ap- 
pears to  Sul-malla,  in  the  valley  of  Lona.  Her  sorrow.  Evening 
comes  on.  A  feast  is  prepared.  The  coming  of  Ferad-artho  is 
announced  by  the  songs  of  a  hundred  bards.  The  poem  closes 
with  a  speech  of  Fingal. 

As  when  the  wintry  winds  have  seized  the  waves  of 
the  mountain  lake,  have  seized  them  in  stormy  night, 
and  clothed  them  over  with  ice ;  white  to  the  hunter's 
early  eye,  the  billows  still  seem  to  roll.  He  turns  his 
ear  to  the  sound  of  each  unequal  ridge.  But  each  is 
silent,  gleaming,  strewn  with  boughs,  and  tufts  of  grass, 
which  shake  and  whistle  to  Ihe  wind,  over  their  gray 
seats  of  frost.  So  silent  shone  to  the  morning  the 
ridges  of  Morven's  host,  as  each  warrior  looked  up 
from  his  helmet  towards  the  hill  of  *he  king  ;  the  cloud- 
covered  hill  of  Fingal,  where  he  strix-p  in  the  folds  of 
mist.  Al  times  is  the  hero  seen,  greati)  ^im  in  all  his 
arms.  From  thought  to  thought  tolled  the  war,  along 
his  mighty  soul. 

40 


470  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAK. 

Now  is  the  coming  forth  of  the  king.  First  ap- 
peared the  sword  of  Luno ;  the  spear  half  issuing  from 
a  cloud,  the  shield  still  dim  in  mist.  But  when  the 
stride  of  the  king  came  abroad,  with  all  his  gray  dewy 
locks  in  the  wind ;  then  rose  the  shouts  of  his  host 
over  every  moving  tribe.  They  gathered,  gleaming, 
round,  with  all  their  echoing  shields.  So  rise  the  green 
seas  round  a  spirit,  that  comes  down  from  the  squally 
wind.  The  traveller  hears  the  sound  afar,  and  lifts  his 
head  over  the  rock.  He  looks  on  the  troubled  bay, 
and  thinks  he  dimly  sees  the  form.  The  waves  sport, 
unwieldy,  round,  with  all  their  backs  of  foam. 

Far  distant  stood  the  son  of  Morni,  Duthno's  race, 
and  Cona's  bard.  We  stood  far  distant  j  each  beneath 
his  tree.  We  shunned  the  eyes  of  the  king :  we  had 
not  conquered  in  the  field.  A  little  stream  rolled  at 
my  feet :  I  touched  its  light  wave,  with  my  spear.  I 
touched  it  with  my  spear :  nor  there  was  the  soul  of 
Ossian.  It  darkly  rose,  from  thought  to  thought,  and 
gent  abroad  the  sigh. 

"  Son  of  Morni,"  said  the  king,  "  Dermid,  hunter  of 
roes !  why  are  ye  dark,  like  two  rocks,  each  with  its 
trickling  waters  ?  No  wrath  gathers  on  Fingal's  soul, 
against  the  chiefs  of  men.  Ye  are  my  strength  in 
battle ;  the  kindling  of  my  joy  in  peace.  My  early 
voice  has  been  a  pleasant  gale  to  your  years,  when 
Fillan  prepared  the  bow.  The  son  of  Fingal  is  not 
here,  nor  yet  the  chase  of  the  bounding  roes.  But 
why  should  the  breakers  of  shields  stand,  darkened,  far 
away?" 

Tall  they  strode  towards  the  king :  they  saw  him 
turned  to  Mora's  wind.  His  tears  came  down  for  his 
blue-eyed  son,  *%no  slept  in  the  cave  of  streams.  But 
he  brightened  before  them,  and  spoke  to  the  broad- 
shielded  kin«^s. 

"  Crommal,  with  woody  rocks,  and  misty  top,  the 


TEMORA.  471 

field  of  winds,  pours  fcrth,  to  the  sight,  blue  Lubar's 
streamy  roar.  Behind  it  rolls  clear- winding  Lavath, 
in  the  still  vale  of  deer.  A  cave  is  dark  in  a  rock ; 
above  it  strong-winged  eagles  dwell ;  broad-headed 
oaks,  before  it,  sound  in  Cluna's  wind.  Within,  in  his 
locks  of  youth,  is  Ferad-artho,  blue-eyed  king,  the  son 
of  broad -shielded  Cairbar,  from  Ullin  of  the  roes.  He 
listens  to  the  voice  ofCondan,  as  gray  he  bends  in 
feeble  light.  He  listens,  for  his  foes  dwell  in  the  echo- 
ing halls  of  Temora.  He  comes,  at  times,  abroad  in 
the  skirts  of  mist,  to  pierce  the  bounding  roes.  When 
the  sun  looks  on  the  field,  nor  by  the  rock,  nor  stream, 
is  he !  He  shuns  the  race  of  Bolga,  who  dwell  in  his 
father's  hall.  Tell  him,  that  Fingal  lifts  the  spear,  and 
that  his  foes,  perhaps,  may  fail. 

"  Lift  up,  O  Gaul,  the  shield  before  him.  Stretch, 
Dermid,  Temora's  spear.  Be  thy  voice  in  his  ear,  O 
Carril,  with  the  deeds  of  his  fathers.  Lead  him  to 
green  Moi-lena,  to  the  dusky  field  of  ghosts  ;  for  there, 
1  fall  forward,  in  battle,  in  the  folds  of  war.  Before 
dun  night  descends,  come  to  high  Dunmora's  top. 
Look,  from  the  gray  skirts  of  mist,  on  Lena  of  the 
streams.  If  there  my  standard  shall  float  on  wind, 
over  Lubar's  gleaming  stream,  then  has  not  Fingal 
failed  in  the  last  of  his  fields." 

Such  were  his  words ;  nor  aught  replied  the  silent 
striding  kings.  They  looked  sidelong  on  Erin's  host, 
and  darkened  as  they  went.  Never  before  had  they 
left  the  king,  in  the  midst  of  the  stormy  field.  Behind 
them,  touching  at  times  his  harp,  the  gray-haired  Car- 
ril moved.  He  foresaw  the  fall  of  the  people,  and 
mournful  was  the  sound !  It  was  like  a  breeze  that 
comes,  by  fits,  over  Lego's  reedy  lake ;  when  sleep 
half  descends  on  the  hunter,  within  his  mossy  cave. 

"  Why  bends  the  bard  of  Cona,"  said  Fingal,  "over 
his  secret  stream  ?  Is  this  a  time  for  sorrow,  father  of 


472  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAH. 

low-laid  Oscar  1  Be  the  warriors  remembered  in  peace  j 
when  echoing  shields  are  heard  no  more.  Bend,  then, 
in  grief,  over  the  flood,  where  blows  the  mountain 
breeze.  Let  them  pass  on  thy  soul,  the  blue-eyed 
dwellers  of  the  tomb.  But  Erin  rolls  to  war ;  wide 
tumbling,  rough,  and  dark.  Lift,  Ossian,  lift  the  shield. 
I  urn  alone,  my  son  !" 

As  comes  the  sudden  voice  of  winds  to  the  becalmed 
ship  of  Inis-huna,  and  drives  it  large,  along  the  deep, 
dark  rider  of  the  wave ;  so  the  voice  of  Fingal  sent 
Ossian,  tall  along  the  heath.  He  lifted  high  his  shi- 
ning shield,  in  the  dusky  wing  of  war  ;  like  the  broad, 
blank  moon,  in  the  skirt  of  a  cloud,  before  the  storms 
arise. 

Loud,  from  moss-covered  Mora,  poured  down,  at 
once,  the  broad-winged  war.  Fingal  led  his  people 
forth,  king  of  Morven  of  streams.  On  high  spreads 
the  eagle's  wing.  His  gray  hair  is  poured  on  his 
shoulders  broad.  In  thunder  are  his  mighty  strides. 
He  often  stood,  and  saw,  behind,  the  wide-gleaming 
rolling  of  armor.  A  rock  he  seemed,  gray  over  with 
ice,  whose  woods  are  high  in  wind.  Bright  streams 
leapt  from  its  head,  and  spread  their  foam  on  blasts. 

Now  he  came  to  Lubar's  cave,  where  Fillan  darkly 
slept.  Bran  still  lay  on  the  broken  shield  :  the  eagle- 
wing  is  strewed  by  the  winds.  Bright,  from  withered 
furze,  looked  forth  the  hero's  spear.  Then  grief 
stirred  the  soul  of  the  king,  like  whirlwinds  blackening 
on  a  lake.  He  turned  his  sudden  step,  and  leaned  jn 
his  bending  spear. 

White-breasted  Bran  came  bounding  with  joy  to  the 
known  path  of  Fingal.  He  came,  and  looked  towards 
the  cave,  where  the  blue-eyed  hunter  lay,  for  ne  was 
wont  to  stride,  with  morning,  to  the  dewy  bed  of  thn 
roe.  It  was  then  the  tears  of  the  king  came  down, 
and  all  his  soul  was  dark.  But  as  the  rising  wind  roil  j 


TEMORA.  473 

away  the  storm  of  rain,  and  leaves  the  white  streams 
to  the  sun,  and  high  hills  with  their  heads  of  grass ;  so 
the  returning  war  brightened  the  mind  of  Fingal.  He 
bounded,  on  his  spear,  over  Lubar,  and  struck  his  echo- 
ing shield.  His  ridgy  host  bend  forward,  at  once, 
with  all  their  pointed  steel. 

Nor  Erin  heard,  with  feaf,  the  sound :  wide  they 
come  rolling  along.  Dark  Malthos,  in  the  wing  of 
war,  looks  forward  from  shaggy  brows.  Next  rose 
that  beam  of  light,  Hidalla !  then  the  sidelong-looking 
gloom  of  Maronnan.  Blue-shielded  Clonar  lifts  the 
spear :  Cormar  shakes  his  bushy  locks  on  the  wind. 
Slowly,  from  behind  a  rock,  rose  the  bright  form  of 
Atha.  First  appeared  his  two-pointed  spears,  then  the 
half  of  his  burnished  shield  :  like  the  rising  of  a  nightly 
meteor,  over  the  valley  of  ghosts.  But  when  he  shone 
all  abroad,  the  hosts  plunged,  at  once,  into  strife.  The 
gleaming  waves  of  steel  are  poured  on  either  side. 

As  meet  two  troubled  seas,  with  the  rolling  of  all 
their  waves,  when  they  feel  the  wings  of  contending 
winds,  in  the  rock-sided  frith  of  Lumon ;  along  the 
echoing  hills  in  the  dim  course  of  ghosts :  from  the 
blast  fall  the  torn  groves  on  the  deep,  amidst  the  foamy 
path  of  whales.  So  mixed  the  hosts !  Now  Fingal ; 
nowCathmor  came  abroad.  The  dark  tumbling  of  death 
is  be'fore  them :  the  gleam  of  broken  steel  is  rolled  on 
their  steps,  as,  loud,  the  high-bounding  kings  hewed 
down  the  ridge  of  shields. 

Maronnan  fell,  by  Fingal,  laid  large  across  a  stream. 
The  waters  gathered  by  his  side,  and  leapt  gray  over 
his  bossy  shield.  Clonar  is  pierced  by  Cathmor  ;  nor 
yet  lay  the  chief  on  earth.  An  oak  seized  his  hair  in 
his  fall.  His  helmet  rolled  on  the  ground.  By  its 
thong,  hung  his  broad  shield ;  over  it  wandered  his 
streaming  blood.  Tla-min  shall  weep,  in  the  hall,  and 
strike  her  heaving  breast. 

40* 


474  THE    POEMS   OF    OSSIAN. 

Nor  did  Ossian  forget  the  spear,  in  the  wing  of  ].n 
war.  He  strewed  the  field  with  Jead.  Young  Hida'  la 
came.  "  Soft  voice  of  streamy  Clonra  !  why  dost  th  >u 
lift  the  steel  ?  O  that  we  met  in  the  strife  of  song,  in 
thine  own  rushy  vale !"  Malthos  beheld  him  low,  a.id 
darkened  as  he  rushed  along.  On  either  side  of  a 
stream,  we  bent  in  the  echoing  strife.  Heaven  comes 
rolling  down ;  around  burst  the  voices  of  squally  winds. 
Hills  are  clothed,  at  times,  in  fire.  Thunder  rolls  in 
wreaths  of  mist.  In  darkness  shrunk  the  foe :  Mor- 
ven's  warriors  stood  aghast.  Still  I  bent  over  the 
stream,  amidst  my  whistling  locks. 

Then  rose  the  voice  of  Fingal,  and  the  sound  of  tlie 
flying  foe.  I  saw  the  king,  at  times,  in  lightning, 
darkly  striding  in  his  might.  I  struck  my  echoing 
shield,  and  hung  forward  on  the  steps  of  Alnecma ;  the 
foe  is  rolled  before  me,  like  a  wreath  of  smoke. 

The  sun  looked  forth  from  his  cloud.  The  hundred 
streams  of  Moi-lena  shone.  Slow  rose  the  blue  columns 
of  mist,  against  the  glittering  hill.  Where  are  the 
mighty  kings  ?  Nor  by  that  stream,  nor  wood,  are  they ! 
I  hear  the  clang  of  arms  !  Their  strife  is  in  the  bosom 
of  that  mist.  Such  is  the  contending  of  spirits  in  a 
nightly  cloud,  when  they  strive  for  the  wintry  wings 
of  winds,  and  the  rolling  of  the  foam-covered  waves. 

I  rushed  along.  The  gray  mist  rose.  Tall,  gleam- 
ing, they  stood  at  Lubar.  Cathmor  leaned  against  a 
rock.  His  half-fallen  shield  received  the  stream,  thnt 
leapt  from  the  moss  above.  Towards  him  is  the  stride 
of  Fingal :  he  saw  the  hero's  blood.  His  sword  fell 
slowly  to  his  side.  He  spoke,  amidst  his  darkening  joy. 

"  Yields  the  race  of  Borbar-duthal  ?  Or  still  does 
he  lift  the  spear  ?  Not  unheard  is  thy  name,  at  Atha, 
in  the  green  dwelling  of  strangers.  It  has  come,  like 
the  breeze  of  his  desert,  to  the  ear  of  Fingal.  Como 
to  my  hill  of  feasts :  the  mighty  fail,  at  times.  No  firo 


TEMORA.  475 

am  I  to  low-laid  foes ;  I  rejoice  not  over  the  fall  of  the 
brave.  To  close  the  wound  is  mine :  I  have  known 
the  herbs  of  the  hills.  I  seized  their  fair  heads,  on 
high,  as  they  waved  by  their  secret  streams.  Thou 
art  dark  and  silent,  king  of  Atha  of  strangers !" 

"  By  Atha  of  the  stream,"  he  said,  "  there  rises  a 
mossy  rock.  On  its  head  is  the  wandering  of  boughs, 
within  the  course  of  winds.  Dark,  in  its  face,  is  a 
cave,  with  its  own  loud  rill.  There  have  I  heard  the 
tread  of  strangers,  when  they  passed  to  my  hall  of 
shells.  Joy  rose,  like  a  flame,  on  my  soul ;  I  blest 
the  echoing  rock.  Here  be  my  dwelling,  in  darkness; 
in  my  grassy  vale.  From  this  I  shall  mount  the  breeze, 
that  pursues  my  thistle's  beard  ;  or  look  down  on  blue, 
winding  Atha,  from  its  wandering  mist." 

"  Why  speaks  the  king  of  the  tomb  ?  Ossran,  the 
warrior  has  failed  !  Joy  meet  thy  soul,  like  a  stream, 
Cathmor  friend  of  strangers  !  My  son,  I  hear  the  call 
of  years ;  they  take  my  spear  as  they  pass  along. 
Why  does  not  Fingal,  they  seem  to  say,  rest  within 
his  hall  1  Dost  thou  always  delight  in  blood  ?  In  the 
tears  of  the  sad  ?  No  ;  ye  dark-rolling  years,  Fingal 
delights  not  in  blood.  Tears  are  wintry  streams  that 
waste  away  my  soul.  But  when  I  lie  down  to  rest, 
then  comes  the  mighty  voice  of  war.  It  awakes  me  in 
my  hall  and  calls  forth  all  my  steel.  It  shall  call  it 
forth  no  more ;  Ossian,  take  thou  thy  father's  spear. 
Lift  it,  in  battle,  when  the  proud  arise. 

"  My  fathers,  Ossian,  trace  my  steps  ;  my  deeds  are 
pleasant  to  their  eyes.  Wherever  I  come  forth  to  bat- 
tle, on  my  field,  are  their  columns  of  mist.  But  mine 
arm  rescued  the  feeble !  the  haughty  found  my  rage 
was  fire.  Never  over  the  fallen  did  mine  eye  rejoice. 
For  this,  my  fathers  shall  meet  me,  at  the  gates  of  their 
airy  halls,  tall,  with  robes  of  light,  with  mildly-kindled 
eyes.  But  to  the  proud  in  arms,  they  are  darkened 


476  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

moons  in  heaven,  which  send  the  fire  of  night  red 
wandering  over  their  face. 

"  Father  of  heroes,  Trenmor,  dweller  of  eddying 
winds,  I  give  thy  spear  to  Ossian :  let  thine  eye  rejoice. 
Thee  have  I  seen,  at  times,  bright  from  between  thy 
clouds ;  so  appear  to  my  son,  when  he  is  to  lift  the 
spear  :  then  shall  he  remember  thy  mighty  deeds,  though 
thou  art  now  but  a  blast." 

He  gave  the  spear  to  my  hand,  and  raised  at  once  a 
stone  on  high,  to  speak  to  future  times,  with  its  gray 
head  of  moss.  Beneath  he  placed  a  sword  in  earth, 
and  one  bright  boss  from  his  shield.  Dark  in  thought 
awhile  he  bends :  his  words  at  length  came  forth. 

"  When  thou,  O  stone,  shalt  moulder  down,  and  lose 
thee  in  the  moss  of  years,  then  shall  the  traveller  come, 
and  whistling  pass  away.  Thou  knowest  not,  feeble 
man,  that  fame  once  shone  on  Moi-lena.  Here  Fingal 
resigned  his  spear,  after  the  last  of  his  fields.  Pass 
away,  thou  empty  shade  !  in  thy  voice  there  is  no  re- 
nown. Thou  dwellest  by  some  peaceful  stream ;  yet 
a  few  years,  and  thou  art  gone.  No  one  remembers 
thee,  thou  dweller  of  thick  mist !  But  Fingal  shall  be 
clothed  with  fame,  a  beam  of  light  to  other  times  ;  for 
he  went  forth,  with  echoing  steel,  to  save  the  weak  in 
arms." 

Brightening,  in  his  fame,  the  king  strode  to  Lubar's 
sounding  oak,  where  it  bent,  from  its  rock,  over  the 
bright  tumbling  stream.  Beneath  it  is  a  narrow  plain, 
and  the  sound  of  the  fount  of  the  rock.  Here  the 
standard  of  Morven  poured  its  wreaths  on  the  wind,  to 
mark  the  way  of  Ferad-artho  from  his  secret  vale. 
Bright,  from  his  parted  west,  the  son  of  heaven  looked 
abroad.  The  hero  saw  his  people,  and  heard  their 
shouts  of  joy.  In  broken  ridges  round,  they  glittered 
to  the  beam.  The  king  rejoiced,  as  a  hunter  in  his 
own  green  vale,  when,  after  the  storm  is  rolled  away, 


TEMORA.  477 

lie  sees  the  gleaming  sides  of  the  rocks.  The  green 
thorn  shakes  its  head  in  their  face  ;  from  their  top  look 
forward  the  roes. 

Gray,  at  his  mossy  cave,  is  bent  the  aged  form  of 
Clonmal.  The  eyes  of  the  bard  nad  failed.  He  lean- 
ed  forward  on  his  staff.  Bright  in  her  locks,  before 
him,  Sul-malla  listened  to  the  tale  ;  the  tale  of  the  kings 
of  Atha,  in  the  days  of  old.  The  noise  of  battle  had 
ceased  in  his  ear  :  he  stopt  and  raised  the  secret  sigh. 
The  spirits  of  the  dead,  they  said,  often  lightened  along 
his  soul.  He  saw  the  king  of  Atha  low,  beneath  his 
bending  tree. 

"  Why  art  thou  dark  ?"  said  the  maid.  "  The  strife 
of  arms  is  past.  Soon  shall  he  come  to  thy  cave,  over 
thy  winding  streams.  The  sun  looks  from  the  rocks 
of  the  west.  The  mists  of  the  lake  arise.  Gray  they 
spread  on  that  hill,  the  rushy  dwelling  of  roes.  From 
the  mist  shall  my  king  appear  !  Behold,  he  comes  in 
his  arms.  Come  to  the  cave  of  Clonmal,  O  my  best 
beloved !" 

It  was  the  spirit  of  Cathmor,  stalking,  large,  a  gleam- 
ing form.  He  sunk  by  the  hollow  stream,  that  roared 
between  the  hills.  "  It  was  but  the  hunter,"  she  said, 
"  who  searches  for  the  bed  of  the  roe.  His  steps  are 
not  forth  to  war  ;  his  spouse  expects  him  with  night. 
He  shall,  whistling,  return  with  the  spoils  of  the  dark- 
brown  hinds."  Her  eyes  were  turned  to  the  hill ; 
again  the  stately  form  came  down.  She  rose  in  the 
midst  of  joy.  He  retired  again  in  mist.  Gradual 
vanish  his  limbs  of  smoke,  and  mix  with  the  mountain 
wind.  Then  she  knew  that  he  fell !  "  King  of  Erin, 
art  thou  low  !"  Let  Ossian  forget  her  grief ;  it  wastes 
the  soul  of  age. 

Evening  came  down  on  Moi-lena.  Gray  rolled  the 
streams  of  the  land.  Loud  came  forth  the  voice  of 
Fingal :  the  beam  of  oaks  arose.  The  people  gathered 


478  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

round  with  gladness,  with  gladness  blended  with  shades. 
They  sidelong  looked  to  the  king,  and  beheld  his  un- 
finished joy.  Pleasant  from  the  way  of  the  desert,  the 
voice  of  music  came.  It  seemed,  at  first,  the  noise  of 
a  stream,  far  distant  on  its  rocks.  Slow  it  rolled  along 
the  hill,  like  the  ruffled  wing  of  a  breeze,  when  it  takes 
the  tufted  beard  of  the  rocks,  hi  the  still  season  of  night. 
It  was  the  voice  of  Condon,  mixed  with  Carril's  trem- 
bling harp.  They  came,  with  blue-eyed  Ferad-artho, 
to  Mora  of  the  streams. 

Sudden  bursts  the  song  from  our  bards,  on  Lena : 
the  host  struck  their  shields  midst  the  sound.  Gladness 
rose  brightening  on  the  king,  like  the  beam  of  a  cloudy 
day,  when  it  rises  on  the  green  hill,  before  the  roar  of 
winds.  He  struck  the  bossy  shield  of  kings  ;  at  once 
they  cease  around.  The  people  lean  forward,  from 
their  spears,  towards  the  voice  of  their  land. 

"  Sons  of  Morven,  spread  the  feast ;  send  the  night 
away  in  song.  Ye  have  shone  around  me,  and  the 
dark  storm  is  past.  My  people  are  the  windy  rocks, 
from  which  I  spread  my  eagle  wings,  when  I  rush  forth 
to  renown,  and  seize  it  on  its  field.  Ossian,  thou  hast 
the  spear  of  Fingal ;  it  is  not  the  staff  of  a  boy  with 
which  he  strews  the  thistles  round,  young  wanderer  of 
the  field.  No  :  it  is  the  lance  of  the  mighty,  with 
which  they  stretched  forth  their  hands  to  death.  Look 
to  thy  fathers,  my  son  ;  they  are  awful  beams.  With 
morning  lead  Ferad-artho  forth  to  the  echoing  halls  of 
Temora.  Remind  him  of  the  kings  of  Erin :  the 
stately  forms  of  old.  Let  not  the  fallen  be  forgot : 
they  were  mighty  in  the  field.  Let  Carril  pour  his 
song,  that  the  kings  may  rejoice  in  their  mist.  To- 
morrow I  spread  my  sails  to  Selma's  shaded  walls : 
where  streamy  Duth-ula  winds  through  the  seats  of 
roes." 


CONLATH  AND  CUTHONA. 

ARGUMENT. 


he  youngest  of  Morni's  sons,  and  brother  tc  the  ceie- 
1.    He  was  in  love  with  Cuthona,  the  daughter  ol 


Conluth  was  the 

brated  Gaul. __, 

Kumar,  when  Toscar,  th'e  son  of  Kenfena,  accompanied  oy  Fer- 
cuth  his  friend,  arrived  from  Ireland,  at  Mora,  where  Conlath 
dwelt.  He  was  hospitably  received,  and  according  to  the  cus- 
tom of  the  times,  feasted  three  days  with  Conlath.  On  the  fourth 
he  set  sail,  and  coasting  the  island  of  loaves,  one  of  the  Hebrides, 
he  saw  Cuthona  hunting,  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  carried  her 
away,  by  force,  in  his  snip.  He  was  forced,  by  stress  of  wea- 
ther, into  I-thona,  a  desert  isle.  In  the  mean  time  Conlath  hear- 
ing of  the  rape,  sailed  after  him,  and  found  him  on  the  point  of 
sauing  for  the  coast  of  Ireland.  They  fought :  and  they  and 
their  followers  fell  by  mutual  wounds.  Cuthona  did  not  long 
survive  :  for  she  died  of  grief  the  thifd  d^y  after.  Fingal  hear- 
ing of  their  unfortunate  death,  sent  Stormal  the  son  of  Moran  to 
bury  them,  but  forgot  to  send  a  bard  to  sing  the  funeral  song  over 
their  tombs.  The  ghost  of  Conlath  comes  lone  after  to  Ossian, 
to  entreat  him  to  transmit  to  posterity,  his  and  Cuthona's  fame. 
For  it  was  the  opinion  of  the  times,  that  the  souls  of  the  deceased 
were  not  happy,  till  their  elegies- were  composed  by  a  bard. 

DID  not  Ossian  hear  a  voice  ?  or  is  it  the  sound  of 
days  that  are  no  more  ?  Often  does  the  memory  of 
former  times  come,  like  the  evening  sun,  on  my  soul. 
The  noise  of  the  chase  is  renewed.  In  thought,  I  lift 
the  spear.  But  Ossian  did  hear  a  voice  !  Who  art 
thou,  son  of  night  ?  The  children  of  the  feeble  are 
asleep.  The  midnight  wind  is  in  my  hall.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  shield  of  Fingal  that  echoes  to  the  blast.  It 
hangs  in  Ossian's  hall.  He  feels  it  sometimes  with  his 
hands.  Yes,  I  hear  thee,  my  friend  !  Long  has  thy 
voice  been  absent  from  mine  ear !  What  brings  thee, 
on  thy  cloud,  to  Ossian,  son  of  generous  Morni  ?  Are 
the  friends  of  the  aged  near  thee  ?  Where  is  Oscar, 
son  of  fame  ?  He  was  often  near  thee,  O  Conlath, 
when  the  sound  of  battle  arose. 


480  THE   POEMS   OF   OSSIAN. 

Ghost  of  Conlath.  Sleeps  the  sweet  voice  of  Cona, 
in  the  midst  of  his  rustling  hall  ?  Sleeps  Ossian  in  his 
hall,  and  his  friends  without  their  fame  ?  The  sea 
rolls  round  dark  I-thona.  Our  tombs  are  not  seen  in 
our  isle.  How  long  shall  our  fame  be  unheard,  son 
of  resounding  Selma  ? 

Ossian.  O  that  mine  eyes  could  behold  thee !  Thou 
sittest,  dim  on  thy  cloud  !  Art  thou  like  the  mist  of 
Lano  ?  An  half-extinguished  meteor  of  fire  ?  Of 
what  are  the  skirts  of  thy  robe  ?  Of  what  is  thine 
airy  bow  ?  He  is  gone  on  his  blast  like  the  shade  of 
a  wandering  cloud.  Come  from  thy  wall,  O  harp  ! 
Let  me  hear  thy  sound.  Let  the  light  of  memory  rise 
on  I-thona  !  Let  me  behold  again  my  friends !  And 
Ossian  does  behold  his  friends,  on  the  dark-blue 
isle.  The  cave  of  Thona  appears,  with  its  mossy 
rocks  and  bending  trees.  A  stream  roars  at  its  mouth. 
Toscar  bends  over  its  course.  Fercuth  is  sad  by  his 
side.  Cuthona  sits  at  a  distance  and  weeps.  Does  the 
wind  of  the  waves  deceive  me  ?  Or  do  I  hear  them 
speak  ? 

Toscar.  The  night  was  stormy.  From  their  hills 
the  groaning  oaks  came  down.  The  sea  darkly  tum- 
bled beneath  the  blast.  The  roaring  waves  climbed 
against  our  rocks.  The  lightning  came  often  and 
showed  the  blasted  fern.  Fercuth  !  I  saw  the  ghost 
who  embroiled  the  night.  Silent  he  stood,  on  that 
bank.  His  robe  of  mist  flew  on  the  wind.  I  could 
behold  his  tears.  An  aged  man  he  seemed,  and  full  of 
thought ! 

Fercuth.  It  was  thy  father,  O  Toscar.  He  fore- 
sees some  death  among  his  race.  Such  was  his  ap- 
pearance on  Cromla  before  the  great  Maronnan  fell. 
Erin  of  hills  of  grass  !  how  pleasant  are  thy  vales  ! 
Silence  is  near  thy  blue  streams.  The  sun  is  on  thy 
fields.  Soft  is  the  sound  of  the  harp  in  Selama.  Love- 


CONLATH  AND  CUTHONA.          481 

ly  the  cry  of  the  hunter  on  Cromla.  But  we  are 
in  dark  I-thona,  surrounded  by  the  storm.  The  bil- 
lows lift  their  white  heads  above  our  rocks.  We  trem- 
ble amidst  the  night. 

Toscar.  Whither  is  the  soul  of  battle  fled,  Fer- 
outh,  with  locks  of  age  ?  I  have  seen  thee  undaunted 
in  danger :  thine  eyes  burning  with  joy  in  the  fight. 
Whither  is  the  soul  of  battle  fled  ?  Our  fathers  never 
feared.  Go  ;  view  the  settling  sea  :  the  stormy  wind 
is  laid.  The  billows  still  tremble  on  the  deep.  They 
seem  to  fear  the  blast.  Go  ;  view  the  settling  sea. 
Morning  is  gray  on  our  rocks.  The  sun  will  look  soon 
from  his  east ;  in  all  his  pride  of  light !  I  lifted  up  my 
sails  with  joy,  before  the  halls  of  generous  Conlath. 
My  course  was  by  a  desert  isle :  where  Cuthona  pur- 
sued the  deer.  I  saw  her,  like  that  beam  of  the  sun 
that  issues  from  the  cloud.  Her  hair  was  on  her  heav- 
ing breast.  She,  bending  forward,  drew  the  bow.  Her 
white  arm  seemed,  behind  her,  like  the  snow  of  Crom- 
la. Come  to  my  soul,  I  said,  huntress  of  the  desert 
isle  !  But  she  wastes  her  time  in  tears.  She  thinks 
of  the  generous  Conlath.  Where  can  I  find  thy  peace, 
Cuthona,  lovely  maid  ? 

Cuthona.  A  distant  steep  bends  over  the  sea,  with 
aged  trees  and  mossy  rocks.  The  billow  rolls  at  its 
feet.  On  its  side  is  the  dwelling  of  roes.  The  people 
call  it  Mora.  There  the  towers  of  my  love  arise. 
There  Conlath  looks  over  the  sea  for  his  only  love. 
The  daughters  of  the  chase  returned.  He  beheld  their 
downcast  eyes.  "  Where  is  the  daughter  of  Rumar  ?'' 
But  they  answered  not.  My  peace  dwells  on  Mora, 
son  of  the  distant  land  ! 

Toscar.  Cuthona  shall  return  to  her  peace  :  to  the 
towers  of  generous  Conlath.  He  is  the  friend  of  Tos- 
car !  I  have  feasted  in  his  halls  !  Rise,  ye  gentle 
breezes  of  Erin.  Stretch  my  sails  towards  Mora's 
41 


482  THE  POEMS  OF  OSS1AH. 

shores.  Cuthona  shall  rest  on  Mora  ;  but  the  days  of 
Toscar  must  be  sad.  I  shall  sit  in  my  cave  in  the  field 
of  the  sun.  The  blast  will  rustle  in  my  trees,  I  shall 
think  it  is  Cuthona 's  voice.  But  she  is  distant  far,  in 
the  halls  of  the  mighty  Conlath  ! 

Cuthona.  Ha  !  what  cloud  is  that  ?  It  carries  the 
ghost  of  my  fathers.  I  see  the  skirts  of  their  robes, 
like  gray  and  watery  mist.  When  shall  I  fall,  O  Ru- 
mar  ?  Sad  Cuthona  foresees  her  death.  Will  not 
Conlath  behold  me,  before  I  enter  the  narrow  house  ? 

Ossian.  He  shall  behold  thee,  O  maid  !  He  comes 
along  the  heaving  sea.  The  death  of  Toscar  is  dark 
on  his  spear.  A  wound  is  in  his  side !  He  is  pale  at 
the  cave  of  Thona.  He  shows  his  ghastly  wound. 
Where  art  thou  with  thy  tears,  Cuthona  ?  The  chief 
of  Mora  dies.  The  vision  grows  dim  on  my  mind.  I 
behold  the  chiefs  no  more  !  But,  O  ye  bards  of  future 
times,  remember  the  fall  of  Conlath  with  tears.  He 
fell  before  his  day.  Sadness  darkened  in  his  hall.  His 
mother  looked  to  his  shield  on  the  wall,  and  it  was 
bloody.  She  knew  that  her  hero  fell.  Her  sorrow 
was  heard  on  Mora.  Art  thou  pale  on  thy  rock,  Cu- 
thona, beside  the  fallen  chiefs  ?  Night  comes,  and  day 
returns,  but  none  appears  to  raise  their  tomb.  Thou 
frightenest  the  screaming  fowls  away.  Thy  tears  for 
ever  flow.  Thou  art  pale  as  a  watery  cloud,  that  rises 
from  a  lake. 

The  sons  of  green  Selma  came.  They  found  Cu- 
thona  cold.  They  raised  a  tomb  over  the  heroes.  She 
rests  at  the  side  of  Conlath !  Come  not  to  my  dreams, 
O  Conlath  !  Thou  hast  received  thy  fame.  Be  thy 
voice  far  distant  from  my  hall ;  that  sleep  may  descend 
at  night.  O  that  I  could  forget  my  friends  ;  till  my 
footsteps  should  cease  to  be  seen  ;  till  I  come  among 
them  with  joy  !  and  lay  my  aged  limbs  in  the  narrow 
house ! 


BERRATHON. 


ARGUMENT. 

Fingal,  ia  V  is  voj«ge  to  Lochlin,  whither  he  hud  been  invited  by 
Stamo,  vhe  father  of  Agandecca,  touched  at  Berrathon,  an  island 
of  Scandinavia,  where  he  was  kindly  entertained  by  Larthmor, 
tLe  petty  king  of  the  place,  who  was  a  vassal  of  the  supreme 
kings  of  Lochlin.  The  hospitality  of  Larthmor  gained  him  Fin- 
gal's  friendship,  which  that  hero  manifested,  after  the  imprison- 
ment of  Larthmor  by  his  own  son,  by  sending  Ossian  and  Toscar, 
the  father  of  Malvina,  so  often  mentioned,  to  rescue  Larthmor, 
and  to  punish  the  unnatural  behavior  of  Uthal.  Uthal  was  hand- 
some, and,  by  the  ladies,  much  admired.  Nina-thoma,  the  beau- 
tiful daughter  of  Tor-thoma,  a  neighboring  prince,  fell  in  love 
and  fled  with  him.  He  proved  inconstant ;  for  another  lady, 
whose  name  is  not  mentioned,  gaining  his  affections,  he  confined 
Nina-thoma  to  a  desert  island,  near  the  coast  of  Berrathon.  She 
was  relieved  by  Ossian,  who,  in  company  with  Toscar,  landing 
on  Berralhon,  defeated  the  forces  of  Uthal,  and  killed  him  in 
single  combat.  Nina-thoma,  whose  love  not  all  the  bad  beha- 
vior of  Uthal  could  erase,  hearing  of  his  death,  died  of  grief.  In 
the  mean  time  Larthmor  is  restored,  and  Ossian  and  1  oscar  re- 
turn in  triumph  to  Fingal. 

The  poem  opens  with  an  elegy  on  the  death  of  Malvina,  the  daugh- 
ter of  Toscar,  and  closes  with  the  presages  of  Ossian's  death. 

BEND  thy  blue  course,  O  stream  !  round  the  narrow 
plain  of  Lutha.  Let  the  green  woods  hang  over  it, 
from  their  hills ;  the  sun  look  on  it  at  noon.  The 
thistle  is  there  on  its  rock,  and  shakes  its  beard  to  the 
wind.  The  flower  hangs  its  heavy  head,  waving,  at 
limes,  to  the  gale.  "  Why  dost  thou  awake  me,  O 
gale  ?"  it  seems  to  say  :  "  I  am  covered  with  the  drops 
of  heaven.  The  time  of  my  fading  is  near,  the  blast 
that  shall  scatter  my  leaves.  To-morrow  shall  the 
traveller  come  ;  he  that  saw  me  in  my  beauty  shall 
come.  His  eyes  will  search  the  field,  but  they  will 
not  tind  me."  So  shall  they  search  in  vain  for  the 
voice  of  Cona,  after  it  has  failed  in  the  field.  The 


484  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

hunter  shall  come  forth  in  the  morning,  and  the  voice 
of  my  harp  shall  not  be  heard.  "  Where  is  the  son 
of  car-borne  Fingal  ?"  The  tear  will  be  on  his  cheek  ! 
Then  come  thou,  O  Malvina  !  with  all  thy  music,  come  ! 
Lay  Ossian  in  the  plain  of  Lutha :  let  his  tomb  rise  in 
the  lovely  field. 

Malvina  !  where  art  thou,  with  thy  songs  ;  with  the 
soft  sound  of  thy  steps  ?  Son  of  Alpin,  art  thou  near  ? 
where  is  the  daughter  of  Toscar  ?  "I  passed,  O  son 
of  Fingal,  by  Torlutha's  mossy  walls.  The  smoke  of 
the  hall  was  ceased.  Silence  was  among  the  trees  of 
the  hill.  The  voice  of  the  chase  was  over.  I  saw  the 
daughters  of  the  bow.  I  asked  about  Malvina,  but  they 
answered  not.  They  turned  their  faces  away  :  thin 
darkness  covered  their  beauty.  They  were  like  stars, 
on  a  rainy  hill,  by  night,  each  looking  faintly  through 
the  mist !" 

Pleasant  be  thy  rest,  O  lovely  beam !  soon  hast  thou 
set  on  our  hills !  The  steps  of  thy  departure  were 
stately,  like  the  moon,  on  the  blue-trembling  wave. 
But  thou  hast  left  us  in  darkness,  first  of  the  maids  of 
Lutha  !  We  sit,  at  the  rock,  and  there  is  no  voice  ; 
no  light  but  the  meteor  of  fire  !  Soon  hast  thou  set, 
O  Malvina,  daughter  of  generous  Toscar !  But  thou 
risest,  like  the  beam  of  the  east,  among  the  spirits  of 
thy  friends,  where  they  sit,  in  their  stormy  halls,  the 
chambers  of  the  thunder !  A  cloud  hovers  over  Cona. 
Its  blue  curling  sides  are  high.  The  winds  are  beneath 
it,  with  their  wings.  Within  it  is  the  dwelling  of  Fin- 
gal. There  the  hero  sits  in  darkness.  His  airy  spear 
is  in  his  hand.  His  shield,  half  covered  with  clouds, 
is  like  the  darkened  moon  ;  when  one  half  still  remains 
in  the  wave,  and  the  other  looks  sickly  on  the  field  ! 

His  friends  sit  round  the  king,  on  mist !  They  hear 
the  songs  of  Ullin  ;  he  strikes  the  half-viewless  harp. 
He  raises  the  feeble  voice.  The  lesser  heroes,  with  a 


BERRATHOIf.  485 

thousand  meteors,  light  the  airy  hall.  Malvina  rises 
in  the  midst :  a  blush  is  on  her  cheek.  She  beholds 
the  unknown  faces  of  her  fathers.  She  turns  aside  her 
humid  eyes.  "  Art  thou  come  so  soon,"  said  Fingal, 
"  daughter  of  generous  Toscar !  Sadness  dwells  in 
the  halls  of  Lutha.  My  aged  son  is  sad  !  I  hear  the 
breeze  of  Cona,  that  was  wont  to  lift  thy  heavy  locks. 
It  comes  to  the  hall,  but  thou  art  not  there.  Its  voice 
is  mournful  among  the  arms  of  thy  fathers  !  Go,  with 
thy  rustling  wing,  O  breeze  !  sigh  on  Malvina's  tomb. 
It  rises  yonder  beneath  the  rock,  at  the  blue  stream  of 
Lutha.  The  maids*  are  departed  to  their  place.  Thou 
alone,  O  breeze,  mournest  there  !" 

But  who  comes  from  the  dusky  west,  supported  on  a 
cloud  ?  A  smile  is  on  his  gray,  watery  face.  His 
locks  of  mist  fly  on  wind.  He  bends  forward  on  his 
airy  spear.  It  is  thy  father,  Malvina  !  "  Why  shinest 
thou,  so  soon,  on  our  clouds,"  he  says,  "  O  lovely  light 
of  Lutha  1  But  thou  wert  sad,  my  daughter.  Thy 
friends  had  passed  away.  The  sons  of  little  men  were 
in  the  hall.  None  remained  of  the  heroes,  but  Ossian, 
king  of  spears !" 

And  dost  thou  remember  Ossian,  car-borne  Toscar, 
son  of  Conloch  ?  The  battles  of  our  youth  were  many. 
Our  swords  went  together  to  the  field.  They  saw  UA 
coming  like  two  falling  rocks.  The  sons  of  the  stran- 
ger fled.  "  There  come  the  warriors  of  Cona  !"  they 
said.  "  Their  steps  are  in  the  paths  of  the  flying  !" 
Draw  near,  son  of  Alpin,  to  the  song  of  the  aged. 
The  deeds  of  other  times  are  in  my  soul.  My  memory 
beams  on  the  days  that  are  past :  on  the  days  of  migh\y 
Toscar,  when  our  path  was  in  the  deep.  Draw  near, 
son  of  Alpin,  to  the  last  sound  of  the  voice  of  Cona  ! 

The  king  of  Morven  commanded.    I  raised  my  sails 

*  That  is,  the  young  virgins  who  sung  the  funeral  elegy  over 
her  tomb. 

1  ' 


486  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

to  ihe  wind.  Toscar,  chief  of  Lutha,  stood  at  my  side  : 
I  rose  on  the  dark-blue  wave.  Our  course  was  to  sea- 
surrounded  Berrathon,  the  isle  of  many  storms.  There 
dwelt,  with  his  locks  of  age,  the  stately  strength  of 
Larthmor.  Larthmor,  who  spread  the  feast  of  sheila 
to  Fingal,  when  he  went  to  Starno's  halls,  in  the  days 
of  Agandecca.  But  when  the  chief  was  old,  the  pride 
of  his  son  arose  ;  the  pride  of  fair-haired  Uthal,  the 
love  of  a  thousand  maids.  He  bound  the  aged  Larth- 
mor, and  dwelt  in  his  sounding  halls  ! 

Long  pined  the  king  in  his  cave,  beside  his  rolling 
sea.  Day  did  not  come  to  his  dwelling  :  nor  the  burn- 
ing oak  by  night.  But  the  wind  of  ocean  was  there, 
and  the  parting  beam  of  the  moon.  The  red  star  look- 
ed on  the  king,  when  it  trembled  on  the  western  wave. 
Snitho  came  to  Selma's  hall ;  Snitho,  the  friend  of 
Larthmor's  youth.  He  told  of  the  king  of  Berrathon  : 
the  wrath  of  Fingal  arose.  Thrice  he  assumed  the 
spear,  resolved  to  stretch  his  hand  to  Uthal.  But  the 
memory  of  his  deeds  rose  before  the  king.  He  sent 
his  son  and  Toscar.  Our  joy  was  great  on  the  rolling 
sea.  We  often  half  unsheathed  our  swords.  For 
never  before  had  we  fought  alone,  in  battles  of  the 
spear. 

Night  came  down  on  the  ocean.  The  winds  -de- 
parted on  their  wings.  Cold  and  pale  is  the  moon. 
The  red  stars  lift  their  heads  on  high.  Our  course 
is  slow  along  the  coast  of  Berrathon.  The  white 
waves  tumble  on  the  rocks.  "  What  voice  is  that," 
said  Toscar,  "  which  comes  between  the  sounds  of  the 
waves  ?  It  is  soft  but  mournful,  like  the  voice  of  de- 
parted bards.  But  I  behold  a  maid.  She  sits  on  the 
rock  alone.  Her  head  bends  on  her  arms  of  snow. 
Her  dark  hair  is  in  the  wind.  Hear,  son  of  Fingal, 
her  song ;  it  is  smooth  as  the  gliding  stream."  We 
came  to  the  silent  bay,  and  heard  the  maid  of  night. 


BERRATHON.  487 

"How  long  will  ye  roll  round  me,  blue-tumbling 
waters  of  ocean  ?  My  dwelling  was  not  always  in 
caves,  nor  beneath  the  whistling  tree.  The  feast  was 
spread  in  Tor-thoma's  hall.  My  father  delighted  in 
my  voice.  The  youths  beheld  me  in  the  steps  of  my 
loveliness.  They  blessed  the  dark-haired  Nina-thoma, 
It  was  then  thou  didst  come,  O  Uthal  !  like  the  sun  <.f 
heaven  !  The  souls  of  the  virgins  are  thine,  son  of 
generous  Larthmor  !  But  why  dost  thou  leave  me 
alone,  in  the  midst  of  roaring  waters  ?  Was  my  soul 
dark  with  thy  death  ?  Did  my  white  hand  lift  the 
sword  ?  Why  then  hast  thou  left  me  alone,  king  of 
high  Fin-thormo  ?" 

The  tear  started  from  my  eye,  when  I  heard  tbe 
voice  of  the  maid.  I  stood  before  her  in  my  arms.  I 
spoke  the  words  of  peace  !  "  Lovely  dweller  of  the 
cave  !  what  sigh  is  in  thy  breast  ?  Shall  Ossian  lift 
his  sword  in  thy  presence,  the  destruction  of  thy  foes  ? 
Daughter  of  Tor-thoma,  rise  !  I  have  heard  the  words 
of  thy  grief.  The  race  of  Morven  are  around  thee, 
who  never  injured  the  weak.  Come  to  our  dark- 
bosomed  ship,  thou  brighter  than  the  setting  moon  ! 
Our  course  is  to  the  rocky  Berrathon,  to  the  echoing 
walls  of  Fin-thormo."  She  came  in  her  beauty  ;  she 
came  with  all  her  lovely  steps.  Silent  joy  brightened 
in  her  face  ;  as  when  the  shadows  fly  from  the  field 
of  spring  ;  the  blue  stream  is  rolling  in  brightness, 
and  the  green  bush  bends  over  its  course  ! 

The  morning  rose  with  its  beams.  We  came  to 
Rothma's  bay.  A  boar  rushed  from  the  wood  :  my 
spear  pierced  his  side,  and  he  fell.  I  rejoiced  over  the 
blood.  I  foresaw  my  growing  fame.  But  now  the 
sound  of  Uthal 's  train  came,  from  the  high  Fin-thormo. 
They  spread  over  the  heath  to  the  chase  of  the  boar. 
Himself  comes  slowly  on,  in  the  pride  of  his  strength. 
He  lifts  two  pointed  spears.  On  his  side  is  the  hero's 


488  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

sword.  Three  youths  carry  his  polished  bows.  The 
bounding  of  five  dogs  is  before  him.  His  heroes  move 
on,  at  a  distance,  admiring  the  steps  of  the  king. 
Stately  was  the  son  of  Larthmor  !  but  his  soul  was 
dark  !  Dark  as  the  troubled  face  of  the  moon,  wheu 
it  foretells  the  storms. 

We  rose  on  the  heath  before  the  king.  He  stopped 
in  the  midst  of  his  course.  His  heroes  gathered  around. 
A  gray-haired  bard  advanced.  "  Whence  are  the  sons 
of  the  strangers  ?"  began  the  bard  of  song.  "  The 
children  of  the  unhappy  come  to  Berrathon :  to  the 
sword  of  car-borne  Uthal.  He  spreads  no  feast  in  his 
hall.  The  blood  of  strangers  is  on  his  streams.  If 
from  Selma's  walls  ye  come,  from  the  mossy  walls  of 
Fingal,  choose  three  youths  to  go  to  your  king  to  tell 
of  the  fall  of  his  people.  Perhaps  the  hero  may  come 
and  pour  his  blood  on  Uthal's  sword.  So  shall  the 
fame  of  Fin-thormo  arise  ;  like  the  growing  tree  of 
the  vale  !" 

"  Never  will  it  rise,  O  bard  !"  I  said,  in  the  pride 
of  my  wrath.  "  He  would  shrink  from  the  presence 
of  Fingal,  whose  eyes  are  the  flames  of  death.  The 
son  of  Comhal  comes,  and  kings  vanish  before  him. 
They  are  rolled  together,  like  mist,  by  the  breath  of 
his  rage.  Shall  three  tell  to  Fingal,  that  his  people 
fell  ?  Yes  !  they  may  tell  it,  bard  !  but  his  people 
shall  fall  with  fame  !" 

I  stood  in  the  darkness  of  my  strength.  Toscar 
drew  his  sword  at  my  side.  The  foe  came  on  like  a 
stream.  The  mingled  sound  of  death  arose.  Man 
took  man ;  shield  met  shield ;  steel  mixed  its  beams 
with  steel.  Darts  hiss  through  air.  Spears  ring  on 
mails.  Swords  on  broken  bucklers  bound.  As  the 
noise  of  an  aged  grove  beneath  the  roaring  wind,  when 
a  thousand  ghosts  break  the  trees  by  night,  such  wan 
tiie  din  of  arms !  But  Uthal  fell  beneath  my  sword. 


BERRATHON. 


480 


The  sons  of  Barrathon  fled.  It  was  then  I  saw  him  in 
hia  beauty,  and  the  tear  hung  in  my  eye  !  "  Thou  art 
fallen,  young  tree,  I  said,  with  all  thy  beauty  round 
thee.  Thou  art  fallen  on  thy  plains,  and  the  field  is 
bare.  The  winds  come  from  the  desert !  there  is  no 
sound  in  thy  leaves !  Lovely  art  thou  in  death,  son  of 
car-borne  Larthmor." 

Nina-thoma  sat  on  the  shore.  She  heard  the  sound 
of  battle.  She  turned  her  red  eyes  on  Lethmal,  the 
gray-haired  bard  of  Selma.  He  alone  had  remained 
on  the  coast  with  the  daughter  of  Tor-thoma.  "  Son 
of  the  times  of  old !"  she  said,  "  I  hear  the  noise  of 
death.  Thy  friends  have  met  with  Uthal,  and  the  chief 
is  low  !  O  that  I  had  remained  on  the  rock,  enclosed 
with  the  tumbling  waves  ?  Then  would  my  soul  be  sad, 
but  his  death  would  not  reach  my  ear.  Art  thou  fallen 
on  the  heath,  O  son  of  high  Fin-thormo  ?  Thou  didst 
leave  me  on  a  rock,  but  my  soul  was  full  of  thee.  Son 
of  high  Fin-thormo  !  art  thou  fallen  on  thy  heath  ?" 

She  rose  pale  in  her  tears.  She  saw  the  bloody 
shield  of  Uthal.  She  saw  it  in  Ossian's  hand.  Her 
steps  were  distracted  on  the  heath.  She  flew.  She 
found  him.  She  fell.  Her  soul  came  forth  in  a  sigh. 
Her  hair  is  spread  on  her  face.  My  bursting  tears 
descend.  A  tomb  arose  on  the  unhappy.  My  song 
of  wo  was  heard.  "Rest,  hapless  children  of  youth! 
Rest  at  the  noise  of  that  mossy  stream  !  The  virgins 
wir  see  your  tomb,  at  the  chase,  and  turn  away  their 
weeping  eyes.  Your  fame  will  be  in  song.  The  voice 
of  the  harp  will  be  heard  in  your  praise.  The  daugh- 
ters of  Selma  shall  hear  it :  your  renown  shall  be  in 
other  lands.  Rest,  children  of  youth,  at  the  noise  of 
the  mossy  stream !" 

Two  days  we  remained  on  the  coast.  The  heroes 
of  Berrathon  convened.  We  brought  Larthmor  to  his 
halls.  The  feast  of  shells  is  spread.  The  joy  of  the 


490  THE  POEMS  OF  OSSIAN. 

aged  was  great.  He  looked  to  the  arms  ofliis  fathers; 
the  arms  which  he  left  in  his  hall,  when  the  pride  of 
Uthal  rose.  We  were  renowned  before  Larthmor. 
He  blessed  the  chiefs  of  Morven.  He  knew  not  that 
his  son  was  low,  the  stately  strength  of  Uthal !  They 
had  told,  that  he  had  retired  to  the  woods,  with  the  tears 
of  grief.  They  had  told  it,  but  he  was  silent  in  the 
tomb  of  Rothma's  heath. 

On  the  fourth  day  we  raised  our  sails,  to  the  roar 
of  the  northern  wind.  Larthmor  came  to  the  coast. 
His  bards  exalted  the  song.  The  joy  of  the  king  was 
great ;  he  looked  to  Rothma's  gloomy  heath.  He  saw 
the  tomb  of  his  son.  The  memory  of  Uthal  rose. 
"  Who  of  my  heroes,"  he  said,  "  lies  there  ?  he  seems 
to  have  been  of  the  kings  of  men.  Was  he  renowned 
in  my  halls  before  the  pride  of  Uthal  rose  ?  Ye  are 
silent,  sons  of  Berrathon  !  is  the  king  of  heroas  low  ? 
My  heart  melts  for  thee,  O  Uthal !  though  thy  hand 
was  against  thy  father.  O  that  I  had  remained  in  the 
cave !  that  my  son  had  dwelt  in  Fin-thormo !  I  might 
have  heard  the  tread  of  his  feet,  when  he  went  to  the 
chase  of  the  boar.  I  might  have  heard  his  voice  on. 
the  blast  of  my  cave.  Then  would  my  soul  be  glad ; 
but  now  darkness  dwells  in  my  halls." 

Such  were  my  deeds,  son  of  Alpin,  when  the  arm 
of  my  youth  was  strong.  Such  the  actions  of  Toscar, 
the  car-borne  son  of  Conloch.  But  Toscar  is  on  his 
flying  cloud.  I  am  alone  at  Lutha.  My  voice  is  like 
the  last  sound  of  the  wind,  when  it  forsakes  the  woods. 
But  Ossian  shall  not  be  long  alone.  He  sees  the  mist 
that  shall  receive  his  ghost.  He  beholds  the  mist  that 
shall  form  his  robe,  when  he  appears  on  his  hills.  The 
sons  of  feeble  men  shall  behold  me,  and  admire  the  stat- 
ure of  the  chiefs  of  old.  They  shall  creep  to  their  caves. 
They  shall  look  to  the  sky  wi«.  fear :  for  my  step* 
shall  be  in  the  clouds.  Daikness  shall  roll  on  my  side. 


BERRATHON.  491 

Lead,  son  of  Alpin,  lead  the  aged  to  his  woods. 
The  winds  begin  to  rise.  The  dark  wave  of  the  lake 
resounds.  Bends  there  not  a  tree  from  Mora  with  its 
branches  bare  ?  It  bends,  son  of  A  Ipin,  in  the  rustling 
blast.  My  harp  hangs  on  a  blasted  branch.  The 
sound  of  its  strings  is  mournful.  Does  the  wind  touch 
thee,  O  harp,  or  is  it  some  passing  ghost  ?  It  is  the 
hand  of  Malvina!  Bring  me  the  harp,  son  of  Alpin.  An- 
other  song  shall  rise.  My  soul  shall  depart  in  the  sound. 
My  fathers  shall  hear  it  in  their  airy  hall.  Their  dim 
faces  shall  hang,  with  joy,  from  their  clouds  ;  and  their 
hands  receive  their  son.  The  aged  oak  bends  over  the 
stream.  It  sighs  with  all  its  moss.  The  withered  fern 
whistles  near,  and  mixes,  as  it  waves,  with  Ossian's  hair. 

"  Strike  the  harp,  and  raise  the  song :  be  near,  with 
all  your  wings,  ye  winds.  Bear  the  mournful  sound 
away  to  Fingal's  airy  hall.  Bear  it  to  Fingal's  hall, 
that  'he  may  hear  the  voice  of  his  son :  the  voice  of 
him  that  praised  the  mighty  ! 

"  The  blast  of  north  opens  thy  gates,  O  king  !  I  be- 
hold thee  sitting  on  mist  dimly  gleaming  in  all  thine 
arms.  Thy  form  now  is  not  the  terror  of  the  valiant. 
It  is  like  a  watery  cloud,  when  we  see  the  stars  behind 
it  with  their  weeping  eyes.  Thy  shield  is  the  aged 
moon :  thy  sword  a  vapor  half  kindled  with  fire.  Dim 
and  feeble  is  the  chief  who  travelled  in  brightness  be- 
fore!  But  thy  steps  are  on  the  winds  of  the  desert, 
The  storms  are  darkening  in  thy  hand.  Thou  takest 
the  sun  in  thy  wrath,  and  hidest  him  in  thy  clouds. 
The  sons  of  little  men  are  afraid.  A  thousand  showers 
descend.  But  when  thou  comest  forth  in  thy  mildness, 
the  gale  of  the  morning  is  near  thy  course.  The  sun 
laughs  i'.  his  blue  fields.  The  gray  stream  winds  in 
its  vale.  The  bushes  shake  their  green  heads  in  the 
wind.  The  roes  bound  towards  the  desert. 

"  There  is  a  murmur  in  the  heath  !  the  stormy  winds 


492  THE   POE3IS   OF   OSS1AX. 

abate  !  I  hear  the  voice  of  Fingal.  Long  has  it  been 
absent  from  mine  ear  !  '  Come,  Ossian,  come  away,' 
he  says.  Fingal  has  received  his  fame.  We  passed 
away,  like  flames  that  have  shone  for  a  season.  Our 
departure  was  in  renown.  Though  the  plains  of  our 
battles  are  dark  and  silent ;  our  fame  is  in  the  four 
gray  stones.  The  voice  of  Ossian  has  been  heard. 
The  harp  has  been  strung  in  Selma.  '  Come.  Ossian, 
come  away,'  he  says  ;  '  come,  fly  with  thy  fathers  on 
clouds.'  I  come,  I  come,  thou  king  of  men  !  The  life 
of  Ossian  fails.  I  begin  to  vanish  on  Cona.  My  steps 
are  not  seen  in  Selma.  Beside  the  stone  of  Mora  I 
shall  fall  asleep.  The  winds  whistling  in  my  gray 
hair,  shall  not  awaken  me.  Depart  on  thy  wings,  O 
wind,  thou  canst  not  disturb  the  rest  of  the  bard.  The 
night  is  long,  but  bis  eyes  are  heavy.  Depart,  thou 
rustling  blast. 

"  But  why  art  thou  sad,  son  of  Fingal  ?  Why  grows 
the  cloud  of  thy  soul  ?  The  chiefs  of  other  times  are 
departed.  They  have  gone  without  their  fame.  The 
sons  of  future  years  shall  pass  away.  Another  race 
shall  arise.  The  people  are  like  the  waves  of  ocean  ; 
like  the  leaves  of  woody  Morven,  they  pass  away  in  the 
rustling  blast,  and  other  leaves  lift  their  green  heads 
on  high. 

"  Did  thy  beauty  last,  O  Ryno  ?  Stood  the  strength 
of  car-borne  Oscar !  Fingal  himself  departed !  The 
halls  of  his  fathers  forgot  his  steps.  Shalt  thou  then 
remain,  thou  aged  bard  ?  when  the  mighty  have  failed  ? 
But  my  fame  shall  remain,  and  grow  like  the  oak  of 
Morven ;  which  lifts  its  broad  head  to  the  storm,  and 
rejoices  in  the  course  of  the  wind  ?" 


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